The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About
the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas
for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.

BAD HUGH

CHAPTER I

SPRING BANK

A large, old-fashioned, weird-looking wooden building,
with strangely shaped bay windows and stranger gables
projecting here and there from the slanting roof,
where the green moss clung in patches to the moldy
shingles, or formed a groundwork for the nests the
swallows built year after year beneath the decaying
eaves. Long, winding piazzas, turning sharp,
sudden angles, and low, square porches, where the summer
sunshine held many a fantastic dance, and where the
winter storm piled up its drifts of snow, whistling
merrily as it worked, and shaking the loosened casement
as it went whirling by. Huge trees of oak and
maple, whose topmost limbs had borne and cast the
leaf for nearly a century of years, tall evergreens,
among whose boughs the autumn wind ploughed mournfully,
making sad music for those who cared to listen, and
adding to the loneliness which, during many years,
had invested the old place. A wide spreading
grassy lawn, with the carriage road winding through
it, over the running brook, and onward ’neath
graceful forest trees, until it reached the main highway,
a distance of nearly half a mile. A spacious
garden in the rear, with bordered walks and fanciful
mounds, with climbing roses and creeping vines showing
that somewhere there was a taste, a ruling hand, which,
while neglecting the somber building and suffering
it to decay, lavished due care upon the grounds, and
not on these alone, but also on the well-kept barns,
and the whitewashed dwellings in front, where numerous,
happy, well-fed negroes lived and lounged, for ours
is a Kentucky scene, and Spring Bank a Kentucky home.

As we have described it so it was on a drear December
night, when a fearful storm, for that latitude, was
raging, and the snow lay heaped against the fences,
or sweeping-down from the bending trees, drifted against
the doors, and beat against the windows, whence a cheerful
light was gleaming, telling of life and possible happiness
within. There were no flowing curtains before
the windows, no drapery sweeping to the floor, nothing
save blinds without and simple shades within, neither
of which were doing service now, for the master of
the house would have it so in spite of his sister’s
remonstrances.

Page 3

Some one might lose their way on that terrible night,
he said, and the blaze of the fire on the hearth,
which could be seen from afar, would be to them a
beacon light to guide them on their way. Nobody
would look in upon them, as Adaline, or ’Lina
as she chose to be called, and as all did call her
except himself, seemed to think there might, and even
if they did, why need she care? To be sure she
was not quite as fixey as she was on pleasant days
when there was a possibility of visitors, and her
cheeks were not quite so red, but she was looking well
enough, and she’d undone all those little tags
or braids which disfigured her so shockingly in the
morning, but which, when brushed and carefully arranged,
did give her hair that waving appearance she so much
desired. As for himself, he never meant to do
anything of which he was ashamed, so he did not care
how many were watching him through the window, and
stamping his heavy boots upon the rug, for he had just
come in from the storm Hugh Worthington piled fresh
fuel upon the fire, and, shaking back the mass of
short brown curls which had fallen upon his forehead,
strode across the room and arranged the shades to
his own liking, paying no heed when his more fastidious
sister, with a frown upon her dark, handsome face,
muttered something about the “Stanley taste.”

“There, Kelpie, lie there,” he continued,
returning to the hearth, and, addressing a small,
white, shaggy dog, which, with a human look in its
round, pink eyes, obeyed the voice it knew and loved,
and crouched down in the corner at a safe distance
from the young lady, whom it seemed instinctively
to know as an enemy.

“Do, pray, Hugh, let the dirty things stay where
they are,” ’Lina exclaimed, as she saw
her brother walk toward the dining-room, and guessed
his errand. “Nobody wants a pack of dogs
under their feet. I wonder you don’t bring
in your pet horse, saddle and all.”

“I did want to when I heard how piteously he
cried after me as I left the stable to-night,”
said Hugh, at the same time opening a door leading
out upon a back piazza, and, uttering a peculiar whistle,
which brought around him at once the pack of dogs
which so annoyed his sister.

“I’d be a savage altogether if I were
you!” was the sister’s angry remark, to
which Hugh paid no heed.

It was his house, his fire, and if he chose to have
his dogs there, he should, for all of Ad, but when
the pale, gentle-looking woman, knitting so quietly
in her accustomed chair, looked up and said imploringly:

“Please turn them into the kitchen, they’ll
surely be comfortable there,” he yielded at
once, for that pale, gentle woman, was his mother,
and, to her wishes, Hugh was generally obedient.

Page 4

The room was cleared of all its canine occupants,
save Kelpie, who Hugh insisted should remain, the
mother resumed her knitting, and Adaline her book,
while Hugh sat down before the blazing fire, and, with
his hands crossed above his head, went on into a reverie,
the nature of which his mother, who was watching him,
could not guess; and when at last she asked of what
he was thinking so intently, he made her no reply.
He could hardly have told himself, so varied were
the thoughts crowding upon his brain that wintry night.
Now they were of the eccentric old man, who had been
to him a father, and from whom he had received Spring
Bank, together with the many peculiar ideas which made
him the strange, odd creature he was, a puzzle and
a mystery to his own sex, and a kind of terror to
the female portion of the neighborhood, who looked
upon him as a woman-hater, and avoided or coveted
his not altogether disagreeable society, just as their
fancy dictated. For years the old man and the
boy had lived together alone in that great, lonely
house, enjoying vastly the freedom from all restraint,
the liberty of turning the parlors into kennels if
they chose, and converting the upper rooms into a hay-loft,
if they would. No white woman was ever seen upon
the premises, unless she came as a beggar, when some
new gown, or surplice, or organ, or chandelier, was
needed for the pretty little church, lifting its modest
spire so unobtrusively among the forest trees, not
very far from Spring Bank. John Stanley didn’t
believe in churches; nor gowns, nor organs, nor women,
but he was proverbially liberal, and so the fair ones
of Glen’s Creek neighborhood ventured into his
den, finding it much pleasanter to do so after the
handsome, dark-haired boy came to live with him; for
about that frank, outspoken boy there was then something
very attractive to the little girls, while their mothers
pitied him, wondering why he had been permitted to
come there, and watching for the change in him, which
was sure to ensue.

Not all at once did Hugh conform to the customs of
his uncle’s household, and at first there often
came over him a longing for something different, a
yearning for the refinements of his early home among
the Northern hills, and a wish to infuse into Chloe,
the colored housekeeper, some of his mother’s
neatness. But a few attempts at reform had taught
him how futile was the effort, Aunt Chloe always meeting
him with the argument:

“‘Taint no use, Mr. Hugh. A nigger’s
a nigger; and I spec’ ef you’re to talk
to me till you was hoarse ‘bout your Yankee ways
of scrubbin’, and sweepin’, and moppin’
with a broom, I shouldn’t be an atomer white-folksey
than I is now. Besides Mas’r John, wouldn’t
bar no finery; he’s only happy when the truck
is mighty nigh a foot thick, and his things is lyin’
round loose and handy.”

Page 5

To a certain extent this was true, for John Stanley
would have felt sadly out of place in any spot where,
as Chloe said, “his things were not lying round
loose and handy,” and as habit is everything,
so Hugh soon grew accustomed to his surroundings,
and became as careless of his external appearance
as his uncle could desire. Only once had there
come to him an awakening—­a faint conception
of the happiness there might arise from constant association
with the pure and refined, such as his uncle had labored
to make him believe did not exist. He was thinking
of that incident now, and as he thought the veins
upon his broad, white forehead stood out round and
full, while the hands clasped above the head worked
nervously together, and it was not strange that he
did not heed his mother when she spoke, for Hugh was
far away from Spring Bank, and the wild storm beating
against its walls was to him like the sound of the
waves dashing against the vessel’s side, just
as they did years ago on that night he remembered
so well, shuddering as he heard again the murderous
hiss of the devouring flames, covering the fatal boat
with one sheet of fire, and driving into the water
as a safer friend the shrieking, frightened wretches
who but an hour before had been so full of life and
hope, dancing gayly above the red-tongued demon stealthily
creeping upward from the hold below, where it had taken
life. What a fearful scene that was, and the
veins grew larger on Hugh’s brow while his broad
chest heaved with something like a stifled sob as he
recalled the little childish form to which he had
clung so madly until the cruel timber struck from
him all consciousness, and he let that form go down—­down
’neath the treacherous waters of Lake Erie never
to come up again alive, for so his uncle told when,
weeks after the occurrence, he awoke from the delirious
fever which ensued and listened to the sickening detail.

“Lost, my boy, lost with many others,”
was what his uncle had said.

He heard the words as plainly now as when they first
were spoken, remembering how his uncle’s voice
had faltered, and how the thought had flashed upon
his mind that John Stanley’s heart was not as
hard toward womenkind as people had supposed.
“Lost”—­there was a world of
meaning in that word to Hugh more than any one had
ever guessed, and, though it was but a child he lost,
yet in the quiet night, when all else around Spring
Bank was locked in sleep, he often lay thinking of
that child and of what he might perhaps have been
had she been spared to him. He was thinking of
her now, and as he thought visions of a sweet, pale
face, shadowed with curls of golden hair, came up
before his mind, and he saw again the look of bewildered
surprise and pain which shone in the soft, blue eyes
and illumined every feature when in an unguarded moment
he gave vent to the half infidel principles he had
learned from his uncle. Her creed was different
from his, and she explained it to him so earnestly,

Page 6

so tearfully, that he had said to her at last he did
but jest to hear what she would say, and, though she
seemed satisfied, he felt there was a shadow between
them—­a shadow which was not swept away,
even after he promised to read the little Bible she
gave him and see for himself whether he or she were
right. He had that Bible now hidden away where
no curious eye could find it, and carefully folded
between its leaves was a curl of golden hair.
It was faded now, and its luster was almost gone,
but as often as he looked upon it, it brought to mind
the bright head it once adorned, and the fearful hour
when he became its owner. That tress and the
Bible which inclosed it had made Hugh Worthington
a better man. He did not often read the Bible,
it is true, and his acquaintances were frequently
startled with opinions which had so pained the little
girl on board the St. Helena, but this was merely
on the surface, for far below the rough exterior there
was a world of goodness, a mine of gems, kept bright
by memories of the angel child which flitted for so
brief a span across his pathway and then was lost
forever. He had tried so hard to save her—­had
clasped her so fondly to his bosom when with extended
arms she came to him for aid. He could save her,
he said—­he could swim to the shore with
perfect ease and so without a moment’s hesitation
she had leaped with him into the surging waves, and
that was about the last he could remember, save that
he clutched frantically at the long, golden hair streaming
above the water, retaining in his firm grasp the lock
which no one at Spring Bank had ever seen, for this
one romance of Hugh’s seemingly unromantic life
was a secret with himself. No one save his uncle
had witnessed his emotions when told that she was
dead; no one else had seen his bitter tears or heard
the vehement exclamation: “You’ve
tried to teach me there was no hereafter, no heaven
for such as she, but I know better now, and I am glad
there is, for she is safe forever.”

These were not mere idle words, and the belief then
expressed became with Hugh Worthington a firm, fixed
principle, which his skeptical uncle tried in vain
to eradicate. “There was a heaven, and she
was there,” comprised nearly the whole of Hugh’s
religious creed, if we except a vague, misty hope,
that he, too, would some day find her, how or by what
means he never seriously inquired; only this he knew,
it would be through her influence, which even now
followed him everywhere, producing its good effects.
It had checked him many and many a time when his fierce
temper was in the ascendant, forcing back the harsh
words he would otherwise have spoken, and making him
as gentle as a child; and when the temptations to
which young men of his age are exposed were spread
out alluringly before him, a single thought of her
was sufficient to lead him from the forbidden ground.

Page 7

Only once had he fallen, and that two years before,
when, as if some demon had possessed him, he shook
off all remembrances of the past, and yielding to
the baleful fascinations of one who seemed to sway
him at will, plunged into a tide of dissipation, and
lent himself at last to an act which had since embittered
every waking hour. As if all the events of his
life were crowding upon his memory this night, he thought
of two years ago, and the scene which transpired in
the suburbs of New York, whither immediately after
his uncle’s death he had gone upon a matter of
important business. In the gleaming fire before
him there was now another face than hers, an older,
a different, though not less beautiful face, and Hugh
shuddered as he thought how it must have changed ere
this—­thought of the anguish which stole
into the dark, brown eyes when first the young girl
learned how cruelly she had been betrayed. Why
hadn’t he saved her? What had she done to
him that he should treat her so, and where was she
now? Possibly she was dead. He almost hoped
she was, for if she were, the two were then together,
his golden-haired and brown, for thus he designated
the two.

Larger and fuller grew the veins upon his forehead,
as memory kept thus faithfully at work, and so absorbed
was Hugh in his reverie that until twice repeated
he did not hear his mother’s anxious inquiry:

“What is that noise? It sounds like some
one in distress.”

Hugh started at last, and, after listening for a moment
he, too, caught the sound which had so alarmed his
mother, and made ’Lina stop her reading.
A moaning cry, as if for help, mingled with an infant’s
wail, now here, now there it seemed to be, just as
the fierce north wind shifted its course and drove
first at the uncurtained window of the sitting-room,
and then at the ponderous doors of the gloomy hall.

“It is some one in the storm, though I can’t
imagine why any one should be abroad to-night,”
Hugh said, going to the window and peering out into
the darkness.

“Lyd’s child, most likely. Negro
young ones are always squalling, and I heard her tell
Aunt Chloe at supper time that Tommie had the colic,”
’Lina remarked opening again the book she was
reading, and with a slight shiver drawing nearer to
the fire.

“Where are you going, my son?” asked Mrs.
Worthington, as Hugh arose to leave the room.

“Going to Lyd’s cabin, for if Tommie is
sick enough to make his screams heard above the storm,
she may need some help,” was Hugh’s reply,
and a moment after he was ploughing his way through
the drifts which lay between the house and the negro
quarters.

“How kind and thoughtful he is,” the mother
said, softly, more to herself than to her daughter,
who nevertheless quickly rejoined:

“Yes, kind to niggers, and horses, and dogs,
I’ll admit, but let me, or any other white woman
come before him as an object of pity, and the tables
are turned at once. I wonder what does make him
hate women so.”

Page 8

“I don’t believe he does,” Mrs.
Worthington replied. “His uncle, you know,
was very unfortunate in his marriage, and had a way
of judging all our sex by his wife. Living with
him as long as Hugh did, it’s natural he should
imbibe a few of his ideas.”

“A few,” ’Lina repeated, “better
say all, for John Stanley and Hugh Worthington are
as near alike as an old and young man well could be.
What an old codger he was though, and how like a savage
he lived here. I never shall forget how the house
looked the day we came, or how satisfied Hugh seemed
when he met us at the gate, and said, ’everything
was in spendid order,’” and closing her
book, the young lady laughed merrily as she recalled
the time when she first crossed her brother’s
threshold, stepping, as she affirmed, over half a dozen
dogs, and as many squirming kittens, catching her
foot in some fishing tackle, finding tobacco in the
china closet, and segars in the knife box, where they
had been put to get them out of the way.

“But Hugh really did his best for us,”
mildly interposed the mother. “Don’t
you remember what the servants said about his cleaning
one floor himself because he knew they were tired!”

“Did it more to save the lazy negroes’
steps than from any regard for our comfort,”
retorted ’Lina. “At all events he’s
been mighty careful since how he gratified my wishes.
Sometimes I believe he perfectly hates me, and wishes
I’d never been born,” and tears, which
arose from anger, rather than any wounded sisterly
feeling, glittered in ’Lina’s black eyes.

“Hugh does not hate any one,” said Mrs.
Worthington, “much less his sister, though you
must admit that you try him terribly.”

“How, I’d like to know?” ’Lina
asked, and her mother replied:

“He thinks you proud, and vain, and artificial,
and you know he abhors deceit above all else.
Why, he’d cut off his right hand sooner than
tell a lie.”

“Pshaw!” was ’Lina’s contemptuous
response, then after a moment she continued:
“I wonder how we came to be so different.
He must be like his father, and I like mine—­that
is, supposing I know who he is. Wouldn’t
it be funny if, just to be hateful, he had sent you
back the wrong child?”

“What made you think of that?” Mrs. Worthington
asked, quickly, and ’Lina replied:

“Oh, nothing, only the last time Hugh had one
of his tantrums, and got so outrageously angry at
me, because I made Mr. Bostwick think my hair was
naturally curly, he said he’d give all he owned
if it were so, but I reckon he’ll never have
his wish. There’s too much of old Sam about
me to admit of a doubt,” and half spitefully,
half playfully she touched the spot in the center
of her forehead known as her birthmark.

Page 9

When not excited it could scarcely be discerned at
all, but the moment she was aroused, the delicate
network of veins stood out round and full, forming
what seemed to be a tiny hand without the thumb.
It showed a little now in the firelight, and Mrs.
Worthington shuddered as she glanced at what brought
so vividly before her the remembrance of other and
wretched days. Adaline observed the shudder and
hastened to change the conversation from herself to
Hugh, saying by way of making some amends for her
unkind remarks: “It really is kind in him
to give me a home when I have no particular claim
upon him, and I ought to respect him for that.
I am glad, too, that Mr. Stanley made it a condition
in his will that if Hugh ever married, he should forfeit
the Spring Bank property, as that provides against
the possibility of an upstart wife coming here some
day and turning us, or at least me, into the street.
Say, mother, are you not glad that Hugh can never marry
even if he wishes to do so, which is not very probable.”

“I am not so sure of that,” returned Mrs.
Worthington, smoothing, with her small, fat hands
the bright worsted cloud she was knitting, a feminine
employment for which she had a weakness. “I
am not so sure of that. Suppose Hugh should fancy
a person whose fortune was much larger than the one
left him by Uncle John, do you think he would let it
pass just for the sake of holding Spring Bank?”

“And why not?” quickly interrupted the
mother. “He has the kindest heart in the
world, and is certainly fine-looking if he would only
dress decently.”

“I’m much obliged for your compliment,
mother,” Hugh said, laughingly, as he stepped
suddenly into the room and laid his hand caressingly
on his mother’s head, thus showing that even
he was not insensible to flattery. “Have
you heard that sound again?” he continued.
“It wasn’t Tommie, for I found him asleep,
and I’ve been all around the house, but could
discover nothing. The storm is beginning to abate,
I think, and the moon is trying to break through the
clouds,” and, going again to the window, Hugh
looked out into the yard, where the shrubbery and trees
were just discernible in the grayish light of the December
moon. “That’s a big drift by the
lower gate,” he continued; “and queer shaped,
too. Come see, mother. Isn’t that
a shawl, or an apron, or something blowing in the
wind?”

Mrs. Worthington arose, and, joining her son, looked
in the direction indicated, where a garment of some
kind was certainly fluttering in the gale.

“It’s something from the wash, I guess,”
she said. “I thought all the time Hannah
had better not hang out the clothes, as some of them
were sure to be lost.”

This explanation was quite satisfactory to Mrs. Worthington,
but that strange drift by the gate troubled Hugh,
and the signal above it seemed to him like a signal
of distress. Why should the snow drift there more
than elsewhere? He never knew it do so before.
He had half a mind to turn out the dogs, and see what
that would do.

Page 10

“Rover,” he called, suddenly, as he advanced
to the rear room, where, among his older pets, was
a huge Newfoundland, of great sagacity. “Rover,
Rover, I want you.”

In an instant the whole pack were upon him, jumping
and fawning, and licking the hands which had never
dealt them aught save kindness. It was only Rover,
however, who was this time wanted, and leading him
to the door, Hugh pointed toward the gate, and bade
him see what was there. Snuffing slightly at
the storm, which was not over yet, Rover started down
the walk, while Hugh stood waiting in the door.
At first Rover’s steps were slow and uncertain,
but as he advanced they increased in rapidity, until,
with a sudden bound and cry, such as dogs are wont
to give when they have caught their destined prey,
he sprang upon the mysterious ridge, and commenced
digging it down with his paws.

“Easy, Rover—­be careful,” Hugh
called from the door, and instantly the half-savage
growl which the wind had brought to his ear was changed
into a piteous cry, as if the faithful creature were
answering back that other help than his was needed
there.

Rover had found something in that pile of snow.

CHAPTER II

WHAT ROVER FOUND

Unmindful of the sleet beating upon his uncovered
head Hugh hastened to the spot, where the noble brute
was licking a face, a baby face, which he had ferreted
out from beneath the shawl trapped so carefully around
it to shield it from the cold, for instead of one there
were two in that rift of snow—­a mother
and her child! That stiffened form lying there
so still, hugging that sleeping child so closely to
its bosom, was no delusion, and his mother’s
voice calling to know what he was doing brought Hugh
back at Last to a consciousness that he must act, and
that immediately.

“Mother,” he screamed, “send a servant
here, quick! or let Ad come herself. There’s
a woman dead, I fear. I can carry her, but the
child, Ad must come for her.”

“The what?” gasped Mrs. Worthington, who,
terrified beyond measure at the mention of a-dead
woman, was doubly so at hearing of a child. “A
child,” she repeated, “whose child?”

Hugh, made no reply save an order that the lounge
should be brought near the fire and a pillow from
his mother’s bed. “From mine, then,”
he added, as he saw the anxious look in his mother’s
face, and guessed that she shrank from having her
own snowy pillow come in contact with the wet, limp
figure he was depositing upon the lounge. It was
a slight, girlish form, and the long brown hair, loosened
from its confinement, fell in rich profusion over
the pillow which ’Lina brought half reluctantly,
eying askance the insensible object before her, and
daintily holding back her dress lest it should come
in contact with the child her mother had deposited
upon the floor, where it lay crying lustily.

The idea of a strange woman being thrust upon them
in this way was highly displeasing to Miss ’Lina,
who haughtily drew back from the little one when it
stretched its arms out toward her, while its pretty
lip quivered and the tears dropped over its rounded
cheek.

Page 11

Meantime Hugh, with all a woman’s tenderness,
had done for the now reviving stranger what he could,
and as his mother began to collect her scattered senses
and evince some interest in the matter, he withdrew
to call the negroes, judging it prudent to remain
away a while, as his presence might be an intrusion.
From the first he had felt sure that the individual
thrown upon his charity was not a low, vulgar person,
as his sister seemed to think. He had not yet
seen her face distinctly, for it lay in the shadow,
but the long, flowing hair, the delicate hands, the
pure white neck, of which he had caught a glimpse as
his mother unfastened the stiffened dress, all these
had made an impression, and involuntarily repeating
to himself, “Poor girl, poor girl,” he
strode a second time across the drifts which lay in
his back yard, and was soon pounding at old Chloe’s
cabin door, bidding her and Hannah dress at once and
come immediately to the house.

An indignant growl at being thus aroused from her
first sleep was Chloe’s only response, but Hugh
knew that his orders were being obeyed.

The change of atmosphere and restoratives applied
had done their work, and Mrs. Worthington saw that
the long eyelashes began to tremble, while a faint
color stole into the hitherto colorless cheeks, and
at last the large, brown eyes unclosed and looked
into hers with an expression so mournful, so beseeching,
that a thrill of yearning tenderness for the desolate
young creature shot through her heart, and bending
down she said, “Are you better now?”

“Yes, thank you. Where is Willie?”
was the low response, the tone thrilling Mrs. Worthington
again with emotion.

Even ’Lina started, it was so musical, and coming
near she answered: “If it’s the baby
you mean, he is here, playing with Rover.”

There was a look of gratitude in the brown eyes, which
closed again wearily. With her eyes thus closed,
’Lina had a fair opportunity to scan the beautiful
face, with its delicately-chiseled features, and the
wealth of lustrous brown hair, sweeping back from the
open forehead, on which there was perceptible a faint
line, which ’Lina stooped down to examine.

“Mother, mother,” she whispered, drawing
back, “look, is not that a mark just like mine?”

’Lina was about to reply, when again the brown
eyes looked up, and the stranger asked hesitatingly:

“Where am I? And is he here! Is this
his house?”

“Whose house?” Mrs. Worthington asked.

The girl did not answer at once, and when she did
her mind seemed wandering.

“I waited so long,” she said, “but
he never came again, only the letter which broke my
heart. Willie was a baby then, and I almost hated
him for a while, but he wasn’t to blame.
I wasn’t to blame. I’m glad God gave
me Willie now, even if he did take his father from
me.”

Page 12

Mrs. Worthington and her daughter exchanged glances,
and the latter abruptly asked:

“Where is Willie’s father?”

“I don’t know,” came in a wailing
sob from the depths of the pillow.

“Where did you come from?” was the next
question. The young girl looked up in some alarm,
and answered meekly:

“From New York. I thought I’d never
get here, but everybody was so kind to me and Willie,
and the driver said if ’twan’t so late,
and he so many passengers, he’d drive across
the fields. He pointed out the way and I came
on alone.”

The color had faded from Mrs. Worthington’s
face, and very timidly she asked again:

“Whom are you looking for? Whom did you
hope to find?”

“Mr. Worthington. Does he live here?”
was the frank reply; whereupon ’Lina drew herself
up haughtily, exclaiming:

“I knew it. I’ve thought so ever
since Hugh came home from New York.”

’Lina was about to commence a tirade of abuse,
when the mother interposed, and with an air of greater
authority than she generally assumed toward her imperious
daughter, bade her keep silence while she questioned
the stranger, gazing wonderingly from one to the other,
as if uncertain what they meant.

Mrs. Worthington had no such feelings for the girl
as ’Lina entertained.

“It will be easier to talk with you,”
she said, leaning forward, “if I know what to
call you.”

“Adah,” was the response, and the brown
eyes, swimming with tears, sought the face of the
questioner with a wistful eagerness, as if it read
there the unmistakable signs of a friend.

“Adah, you say. Well, then, Adah, why have
you come to my son on such a night as this, and what
is he to you?”

“Are you his mother?” and Adah started
up. “I did not know he had one. Oh,
I’m so glad. And you’ll be kind to
me, who never had a mother?”

A person who never had a mother was an anomaly to
Mrs. Worthington, whose powers of comprehension were
not the clearest imaginable.

“Never had a mother!” she repeated.
“How can that be?”

A smile flitted for a moment across Adah’s face,
and then she answered:

“I never knew a mother’s care, I mean.”

“But your father? What do you know of him?”
said Mrs. Worthington, and instantly a shadow stole
into the sweet young face, as Adah replied:

“Only this, I was left at a boarding school.”

“And Hugh? Where did you meet him?
And what is he to you?”

“The only friend I’ve got. May I
see him, please?”

“First tell what he is to you and to this child,”
’Lina rejoined. Adah answered calmly:

“Your brother might not like to be implicated.
I must see him first—­see him alone.”

“One thing more,” and ’Lina held
back her mother, who was starting in quest of Hugh,
“are you a wife?”

“Don’t, ’Lina,” Mrs. Worthington
whispered, as she saw the look of agony pass over
Adah’s face. “Don’t worry her
so; deal kindly by the fallen.”

Page 13

“I am not fallen!” came passionately from
the quivering lips. “I am as true a woman
as either of you—­look!” and she pointed
to the golden band encircling the third finger.

’Lina was satisfied, and needed no further explanations.
To her, it was plain as daylight. In an unguarded
moment, Hugh had set his uncle’s will at naught,
and married some poor girl, whose pretty face had pleased
his fancy. How glad ’Lina was to have this
hold upon her brother, and how eagerly she went in
quest of him, keeping back old Chloe and Hannah until
she had witnessed his humiliation.

Somewhat impatient of the long delay, Hugh sat in
the dingy kitchen, when ’Lina appeared, and
with an air of injured dignity, bade him follow her.

“What’s up now that Ad looks so solemn
like?” was Hugh’s mental comment as he
took his way to the room where, in a half-reclining
position sat Adah, her large, bright eyes fixed eagerly
upon the door through which he entered, and a bright
flush upon her cheek called up by the suspicions to
which she had been subjected.

Perhaps they might be true. Nobody knew but Hugh,
and she waited for him so anxiously, starting when
she heard a manly step and knew that he was coming.
For an instant she scanned his face curiously to assure
herself that it was he, then with an imploring cry
as if for him to save her from some dreaded evil,
she stretched her little hands toward him and sobbed:
“Mr. Worthington, was it true? Was it as
his letter said?” and shedding back from her
white face the wealth of flowing hair, Adah waited
for the answer, which did not come at once. In
utter amazement Hugh gazed upon the stranger, and
then exclaimed:

“Adah, Adah Hastings, why are you here?”

In the tone of his voice surprise and pity were mingled
with disapprobation, the latter of which Adah detected
at once, and as if it had crushed out the last lingering
hope, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed
piteously.

“Don’t you turn against me, or I’ll
surely die, and I’ve come so far to find you.”

By this time Hugh was himself again. His rapid,
quick-seeing mind had come to a decision, and turning
to his mother and sister, he said:

“Leave us alone for a time.”

Rather reluctantly Mrs. Worthington and her daughter
left the room. Deliberately turning the key in
the lock, Hugh advanced to her side, groaning as his
eye fell upon the child, which had fallen asleep again.

“I hoped this might have been spared her,”
he thought, as, kneeling by the couch, he said, kindly:
“Adah, I am more pained to see you here than
I can express. Why did you come, and where is—­”

The name was lost to ’Lina, and muttering to
herself: “It does not sound much like a
man and wife,” she rather unwillingly quitted
her position, and Hugh was really alone with Adah.

Never was Hugh in so awkward a position before, or
so uncertain how to act. The sight of that sobbing,
trembling wretched creature, whose heart he had helped
to crush, had perfectly unmanned him, making him almost
as much a woman as herself.

Page 14

“Oh, what made you? Why didn’t you
save me?” she said, looking up to him with an
expression of reproach.

He had no excuse. He knew how innocent she was,
and he held her in his arms as he would once have
held the Golden Haired, had she come to him with a
tale of woe.

“Let me see that letter again,” he said.

She gave it to him; and he read once more the cruel
lines, in which there was still much of love for the
poor thing, to whom they were addressed.

“You will surely find friends who will care
for you, until the time when I may come to really
make you mine.”

Hugh repeated these words twice, aloud, his heart
throbbing with the noble resolve, that the confidence
she had placed in him by coming there, should not
be abused, for he would be true to the trust, and care
for the poor, little, half-crazed Adah, moaning so
piteously beside him, and as he read the last line,
saying eagerly:

“He speaks of coming back. Do you think
he ever will? or could I find him if I should try?
I thought of starting once, but it was so far; and
there was Willie. Oh, if he could see Willie!
Mr. Worthington, do you believe he loves me one bit?”

Hugh said at last, that the letter contained many
assurances of affection.

“It seems family pride has something to do with
it. I wonder where his people live, or who they
are? Did he never tell you?”

“No,” and Adah shook her head mournfully.

“Would you go to them?” Hugh asked quickly;
and Adah answered:

“Sometimes I’ve thought I would.
I’d brave his proud mother—­I’d
lay Willie in her lap. I’d tell her whose
he was, and then I’d go away and die.”
Then, after a pause, she continued: “Once,
Mr. Worthington, I went down to the river, and said
I’d end my wretched life, but God held me back.
He cooled my scorching head—­He eased the
pain, and on the very spot where I meant to jump,
I kneeled down and said: ‘Our Father.’
No other words would come, only these: ‘Lead
us not into temptation.’ Wasn’t it
kind in God to save me?”

There was a radiant expression in the sweet face as
Adah said this, but it quickly passed away and was
succeeded by one of deep concern when Hugh abruptly
said:

“Do you believe in God?”

“Oh, Mr. Worthington. Don’t you?
You do, you must, you will,” and Adah shrank
away from him as from a monster.

The action reminded him of the Golden Haired, when
on the deck of the St. Helena he had asked
her a similar question, and anxious further to probe
the opinion of the girl beside him, he continued:

“If, as you think, there is a God who knew and
saw when you were about to drown yourself, why didn’t
He prevent the cruel wrong to you? Why did He
suffer it?”

“What He does we know not now, but we shall
know hereafter,” Adah said, reverently, adding:
“If George had feared God, he would not have
left me so; but he didn’t, and perhaps he says
there is no God—­but you don’t, Mr.
Worthington. Your face don’t look like it.
Tell me you believe,” and in her eagerness Adah
grasped his arm beseechingly.

Page 15

“Yes, Adah, I believe,” Hugh answered,
half jestingly, “but it’s such as you
that make me believe, and as persons of your creed
think everything is ordered for good, so possibly
you were permitted to suffer that you might come here
and benefit me. I think I must keep you, Adah,
at least, until he is found.”

“No, no,” and the tears flowed at once,
“I cannot be a burden to you. I have no
claim.”

After a moment she grew calm again, and continued:

“You whispered, you know, that if I was ever
in trouble, come to you, and that’s why I remembered
you so well, maybe. I wrote down your name, and
where you lived, though why I did not know, and I forgot
where I put it, but as if God really were helping
me I found it in my old portfolio, and something bade
me come, for you would know if it was true, and your
words had a meaning of which I did not dream when I
was so happy. George left me money, and sent
more, but it’s most gone now. I can take
care of myself.”

“What can you do?” Hugh asked, and Adah
replied:

“I don’t know, but God will find me something.
I never worked much, but I can learn, and I can already
sew neatly, too; besides that, a few days before I
decided to come here, I advertised in the Herald
for some place as governess or ladies’ waiting
maid. Perhaps I’ll hear from that.”

“It’s hardly possible. Such advertisements
are thick as blackberries,” Hugh said, and then
in a few brief words, he marked out Adah’s future
course.

George Hastings might or might not return to claim
her, and whether he did or didn’t, she must
live meantime, and where so well as at Spring Bank,
or who, next to Mr. Hastings, was more strongly bound
to care for her than himself?”

“To be sure, he did not like women much,”
he said; “their artificial fooleries disgusted
him. There wasn’t one woman in ten thousand
that was what she seemed to be. But even men
are not all alike,” he continued, with something
like a sneer, for when Hugh got upon his favorite hobby,
“women and their weaknesses,” he generally
grew bitter and sarcastic. “Now, there’s
the one of whom you are continually thinking.
I dare say you have contrasted him with me and thought
how much more elegant he was in his appearance.
Isn’t it so?” and Hugh glanced at Adah,
who, in a grieved tone, replied:

“No, Mr. Worthington, I have not compared you
with him—­I have only thought how good you
were.”

Hugh knew Adah was sincere, and said:

“I told you I did not like women much, and I
don’t but I’m going to take care of you
until that scoundrel turns up; then, if you say so,
I’ll surrender you to his care, or better yet,
I’ll shoot him and keep you to myself.
Not as a sweetheart, or anything of that kind,”
he hastened to add, as he saw the flush on Adah’s
cheek. “Hugh Worthington has nothing to
do with that species of the animal kingdom, but as
my Sister Adah!” and as Hugh repeated that name,
there arose in his great heart an indefinable wish
that the gentle girl beside him had been his sister
instead of the high-tempered Adaline, who never tried
to conciliate or understand him, and whom, try as
he might, Hugh could not love as brothers should love
sisters.

Page 16

He knew how impatiently she was waiting now to know
the result of that interview, and just how much opposition
he should meet when he announced his intention of
keeping Adah. Hugh was master of Spring Bank,
but though its rightful owner, Hugh was far from being
rich, and many were the shifts and self-denials he
was obliged to make to meet the increased expense
entailed upon him by his mother and sister. John
Stanley had been accounted very wealthy, and Hugh,
who had often seen him counting out his gold, was
not a little surprised when, after his death, no ready
money could be found, or any account of the same—­nothing
but the Spring Bank property, consisting of sundry
acres of nearly worn-out land, the old, dilapidated
house, and a dozen or more negroes. This to a
certain extent was the secret of his patched boots,
his threadbare coat and coarse pants, with which ’Lina
so often taunted him, saying he wore them just to
be stingy and mortify her, she knew he did, when in
fact necessity rather than choice was the cause of
his shabby appearance. He had never told her
so, however, never said that the unfashionable coat
so offensive to her fastidious vision was worn that
she might be the better clothed and fed. But
Hugh was capable of great self-sacrifices. He
could manage somehow, and Adah should stay. He
would say that she was a friend whom he had known
in New York, that her husband had deserted her, and
in her distress she had come to him for aid.

All this he explained to Adah, who assented tacitly,
thinking within herself that she should not long remain
at Spring Bank, a dependent upon one on whom she had
no claim. She was too weak now, however, to oppose
him, and merely nodding to his suggestions laid her
head upon the arm of the lounge with a low cry that
she was sick and warm. Stepping to the door Hugh
turned the key, and summoning the group waiting anxiously
in the adjoining room, bade them come at once, as
Mrs. Hastings appeared to be fainting. Great
emphasis he laid upon the Mrs. and catching it up at
once ’Lina repeated, “Mrs. Hastings!
So am I just as much.”

“Ad,” and the eyes which shone so softly
on poor Adah flashed with gleams of fire as Hugh said
to his sister, “not another word against that
girl if you wish to remain here longer. She has
been unfortunate.”

“I guessed as much,” sneeringly interrupted
’Lina.

“Silence!” and Hugh’s foot came
down as it sometimes did when chiding a refractory
negro. “She is as true, yes, truer, than
you. He who should have protected her has basely
deserted her. There is a reason which I do not
care to explain, why I should care for her and I shall
do it. See that a fire is kindled in the west
chamber, and go up yourself when it is made and see
that all is comfortable. Do you understand?”
and he gazed sternly at ’Lina, who was too much
astonished to answer, even if she had been so disposed.

Quick as thought, ’Lina darted up a back stairway,
and when, half an hour later, Hugh, hearing mysterious
sounds above, and suspecting something wrong, went
up to reconnoiter, he found Hannah industriously pulling
the tacks from the carpet, preparatory to taking it
up. In thunder tones, he demanded what she was
doing, and with a start, which made her drop tacks,
hammer, saucer and all, Hannah replied:

Page 17

“Lor’, Mas’r Hugh, how you skeered
me! Miss ’Lina done order me to take up
de carpet, ’case it’s ole miss’s,
and she won’t have no low-lived truck tramplin’
over it. That’s what Miss ’Lina say,”
and Hannah tossed her head quite conceitedly.

“Miss ’Lina be hanged,” was Hugh’s
savage response; “and you, woman, do you hear?—­drive
those nails back faster than you took them out.”

“Yes, mas’r,” and Hannah hastened
down. Whispering to her mistress, Hannah told
what Hugh had said, and instantly there came over Mrs.
Worthington’s face a look of concern, as if she,
too, objected to having the stranger occupy a room
wherein an ex-governor had slept, but Hugh’s
wish was law to her, and she answered that all was
ready. A moment after, Hugh appeared, and taking
Adah in his arms, carried her to the upper chamber,
where the fire was burning brightly, casting cheerful
shadows upon the wall, and making Adah smile gratefully,
as she looked up in his face, and murmured:

“God bless you, Mr. Worthington! Adah will
pray for you to-night, when she is alone. It’s
all that she can do.”

They laid her upon the bed, Hugh himself arranging
her pillows, which no one else appeared inclined to
touch.

Family opinion was against her, innocent and beautiful
as she looked lying there—­so helpless,
so still, with her long-fringed lashes shading her
colorless cheek, and her little hands folded upon her
bosom, as if already she were breathing the promised
prayer for Hugh. Only in Mrs. Worthington’s
heart was there a chord of sympathy. She couldn’t
help feeling for the desolate stranger; and when,
at her own request, Hannah placed Willie in her lap,
ere laying him by his mother, she gave him an involuntary
hug, and touched her lips to his fat, round cheek.

“He looks as you did, Hugh, when you were a
baby like him,” she said, while Chloe rejoined:

“De very spawn of Mas’r Hugh, now.
I ’tected it de fust minit. Can’t
cheat dis chile,” and, with a chuckle, which
she meant to be very expressive, the fat old woman
waddled from the room.

Hugh and his mother were alone, and turning to her
son, Mrs. Worthington said, gently:

“This is sad business, Hugh; worse than you
imagine. Do you know how folks will talk?”

“Let them talk,” Hugh growled. “It
cannot be much worse than it is now. Nobody cares
for Hugh Worthington; and why should they, when his
own mother and sister are against him, in actions
if not in words?—­one sighing when his name
is mentioned, as if he really were the most provoking
son that ever was born, and the other openly berating
him as a monster, a clown, a savage, a scarecrow,
and all that. I tell you, mother, there is but
little to encourage me in the kind of life I’m
leading. Neither you nor Ad have tried to make
anything of me.”

Choking with tears, Mrs. Worthington said:

“You wrong me, Hugh; I do try to make something
of you. You are a dear child to me, dearer than
the other, but I’m a weak woman, and ’Lina
sways me at will.”

Page 18

A kind word unmanned Hugh at once, and kneeling by
his mother, he put his arms around her, and asked
again her care for Adah.

“Great guns, mother!” and Hugh started
to his feet as quick as if a bomb had exploded at
his side. “No! Are you sorry, mother,
to find me better than you imagined it possible for
a bad boy like me to be?”

“No, Hugh, not sorry. I was only thinking
that I’ve sometimes fancied that, as a married
man, you might be happier, even if you did lose Spring
Bank; and when this woman came so strangely, and you
seemed so interested, I didn’t know, I rather
thought—­”

“I know,” and Hugh interrupted her.
“You thought, maybe, I raised Ned when I was
in New York; and, as a proof of said resurrection,
Mrs. Ned and Ned, Junior, had come with their baggage.”

If the hair was golden instead of brown, and the eyes
a different shade, he shouldn’t “make
so tremendous a fuss,” he thought; and, with
a sigh to the memory of the lost Golden Hair, he turned
abruptly to his mother, and as if she had all the
while been cognizant of his thoughts, said:

“But that’s nothing to do with the case
in question. Will you be kind to Adah Hastings,
for my sake? And when Ad rides her highest horse,
as she is sure to do, will you smooth her down?
Tell her Adah has as good a right here as she, if
I choose to keep her.”

“I never meddle with your affairs,” and
there was a tone of whining complaint in Mrs. Worthington’s
voice; “I never pry and you never tell, so I
don’t know how much you are worth, but I can
judge somewhat, and I don’t think you are able.”

Mrs. Worthington was much more easily won over to
Hugh’s opinion than ’Lina. They’d
be a county talk, she said; nobody would come near
them; hadn’t Hugh enough on his hands already
without taking more?

“If my considerate sister really thinks so,
hadn’t she better try and help herself a little?”
retorted Hugh in a blaze of anger.

’Lina began to cry, and Hugh, repenting of his
harsh speech as soon as it was uttered, but far too
proud to take it back, strode up and down the room,
chafing like a young lion.

“Come children, it’s after midnight, let
us adjourn until to-morrow,” Mrs. Worthington
said, by way of ending the painful interview, at the
same time handing a candle to Hugh, who took it silently
and withdrew, banging the door behind him with a force
which made ’Lina start and burst into a fresh
flood of tears.

“I’m a brute, a savage, and want to kick
myself,” was Hugh’s not very self-complimentary
soliloquy, as he went up the stairs. “What
did I want to twit Ad for? Confound my badness!”
and having by this time reached his own door, Hugh
sat down to think.

CHAPTER III

HUGH’S SOLILOQUY

Page 19

“One, two three—­yes, as good as four
women and a child,” he began, “to say
nothing of the negroes, and that is not the worst of
it; the hardest of all is the having people call me
stingy, and the knowing that this opinion of me is
encouraged and kept alive by the remarks and insinuations
of my own sister,” and in the red gleam of the
firelight the bearded chin quivered for a moment as
Hugh thought how unjust ’Lina was to him, and
how hard was the lot imposed upon him.

Then shifting the position of his feet, which had
hitherto rested upon the hearth, to a more comfortable
and suggestive one upon the mantel, Hugh tried to
find a spot in which he could economize.

“I needn’t have a fire in my room nights,”
he said, as a coal fell into the pan and thus reminded
him of its existence, “and I won’t, either.
It’s nonsense for a great hot-blooded clown,
like me to be babied with a fire. I’ve
no tags to braid, no false switches to comb out and
hide, no paint to wash off, only a few buttons to
undo, a shake or so, and I’m all right.
So there’s one thing, the fire—­quite
an item, too, at the rate coal is selling. Then
there’s coffee. I can do without that, I
suppose, though it will be perfect torment to smell
it, and Hannah makes such splendid coffee, too; but
will is everything. Fire, coffee—­I’m
getting on famously. What else?”

“Tobacco,” something whispered, but Hugh
answered promptly: “No, sir, I shan’t!
I’ll sell my shirts, the new ones Aunt Eunice
made, before I’ll give up my best friend.
It’s all the comfort I have when I get a fit
of the blues. Oh, you needn’t try to come
it!” and Hugh shook his head defiantly at his
unseen interlocutor, urging that ’twas a filthy
practice at best, and productive of no good.

Horses was suggested again. “You have other
horses than Bet,” and Hugh was conscious of
a pang which wrung from him a groan, for his horses
were his idols. The best-trained in the country,
they occupied a large share of his affections, making
up to him for the friendship he rarely sought in others,
and parting with them would be like severing a right
hand. It was too terrible to think about, and
Hugh dismissed it as an alternative which might have
to be considered another time. Then hope made
her voice heard above the little blue imps tormenting
him so sadly.

He should get along somehow. Something would
turn up. Ad might marry and go away. What
made her so different from his mother? He had
loved her, and he thought of her now as she used to
look when in her dainty white frocks, with the strings
of coral he had bought with nuts picked on the New
England hills.

He used to kiss those chubby arms—­kiss
the rosy cheeks, and the soft brown hair. But
that hair had changed sadly since the days when its
owner had first lisped his name, and called him “Ugh,”
for the bands and braids coiled around ’Lina’s
haughty head were black as midnight. Not less
changed than ’Lina’s tresses was ’Lina
herself, and Hugh, strong man that he was, had often
felt like crying for the little baby sister, so lost
and dead to him in her young womanhood. What had
changed Ad so?

Page 20

There was many a tender spot in Hugh Worthington’s
heart, and shadow after shadow flitted across his
face as he thought how cheerless was his life, and
how little there was in his surroundings to make him
happy. There was nothing he would not do for
people if approached in the right way, but nobody
cared for him, unless it were his mother and Aunt
Eunice. They seemed to like him, and he reckoned
they did, but for the rest, who was there that ever
thought of doing him a kindness? Poor Hugh!
It was a dreary picture he drew as he sat alone that
night, brooding over his troubles, and listening to
the moan of the wintry wind—­the only sound
he heard, except the rattling of the shutters and
the creaking of the timbers, as the old house rocked
in the December gale.

Suddenly there crept into his mind Adah’s words,
“I shall pray for you to-night.”
He never prayed, and the Bible given by Golden Hair
had not been opened this many a day. Since his
dark sin toward Adah he had felt unworthy to touch
it, but now that he was doing what he could to atone,
he surely might look at it, and unlocking the trunk
where it was hidden, he took it from its concealment
and opened it reverently, half wondering what he should
read first, and if it would have any reference to his
present position.

“Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these
ye did it unto Me.”

That was what Hugh read in the dim twilight, that
the passage on which the lock of hair lay, and the
Bible dropped from his hands as he whispered:

“Golden Hair, are you here? Did you point
that out to me? Does it mean Adah? Is the
God you loved on earth pleased that I should care for
her?”

To these queries, there came no answer, save the mournful
wailing of the night wind roaring down the chimney
and past the sleet-covered window, but Hugh was a
happier man for reading that, and had there before
existed a doubt as to his duty toward Adah, this would
have swept it away.

CHAPTER IV

TERRACE HILL

The storm which visited Kentucky so wrathfully, and
was far milder among the New England hills, and in
the vicinity of Snowdon, whither our story now tends,
was scarcely noticed, save as an ordinary winter’s
storm. As yet it had been comparatively warmer
in New England than in Kentucky; and Miss Anna Richards,
confirmed invalid though she was, had decided that
inasmuch as Terrace Hill mansion now boasted a furnace
in the cellar, it would hardly be necessary to take
her usual trip to the South, so comfortable was she
at home, in her accustomed chair, with her pretty
crimson shawl wrapped gracefully around her. Besides
that, they were expecting her Brother John from Paris,
where he had been for the last eighteen months, pursuing
his medical profession, and she must be there to welcome
him.

Anna was proud of her young, handsome brother, as
were the entire family, for on him and his success
in life all their future hopes were pending.
Aside from being proud, Anna was also very fond of
John, because as all were expected to yield to her
wishes, she had never been crossed by him, and because
he was nearer to her own age, and had evidently preferred
her to either of his more stately sisters, Miss Asenath
and Miss Eudora, whose birthdays were very far distant
from his.

Page 21

John had never been very happy at home—­never
liked Snowdon much, and hence the efforts they were
putting forth to make it attractive to him after his
long absence. He could not help but like home
now, the ladies said to each other, as, a few days
before his arrival, they rode from the village, where
they had been shopping, up the winding terraced hill,
admiring the huge stone building embosomed in evergreens,
and standing out so distinctly against the wintry
sky. And indeed Terrace Hill mansion was a very
handsome place, exciting the envy and admiration of
the villagers, who, while commenting upon its beauty
and its well-kept grounds, could yet remember a time
when it had looked better even than it did now—­when
the house was oftener full of city company, of sportsmen
who came up to hunt, and fish, and drink, as it was
sometimes hinted by the servants, of whom there was
then a greater number than at present—­when
high-born ladies rode up and down in carriages, or
dashed on horseback through the park and off into
the leafy woods—­when sounds of festivity
were heard in the halls from year’s end to year’s
end, and the lights in the parlors were rarely extinguished,
or the fires on the hearth put out. All this
was during the lifetime of its former owner.
With his death there had come a change to the inhabitants
of Terrace Hill. In short it was whispered rather
loudly now that the ladies of Terrace Hill were restricted
in their means, that it was harder to collect a bill
from them than it used to be, that there was less display
of dress and style, fewer fires, and lights, and servants,
and withdrawal from society, and an apparent desire
to be left to themselves.

This was what the village people whispered, and none
knew the truth of the whisperings better than the
ladies in question. They knew they were growing
poorer with each succeeding year, but it was not the
less mortifying to be familiarly accosted by Mrs.
Deacon Briggs, or invited to a sociable by Mrs. Roe.

How Miss Asenath and Miss Eudora writhed under the
infliction, and how hard they tried to appear composed
and ladylike just as they would deem it incumbent
upon them to appear, had they been on their way to
the gallows. How glad, too, they were when their
aristocratic doors closed upon the little, talkative
Mrs. Roe, and what a good time they had wondering
how Mrs. Johnson, who really was as refined and cultivated
as themselves, could associate with such folks to
the extent she did. She was always present at
the Snowdon sewing circles, they heard, and frequently
at its tea-drinkings, while never was there a sickbed
but she was sure to find it, particularly if the sick
one were poor and destitute. This was very commendable
and praiseworthy, they admitted, but they did not
see how she could endure it. Once Miss Asenath
had ventured to ask her, and she had answered that
all her best, most useful lessons, were learned in
just such places—­that she was better for

Page 22

these visits, and found her purest enjoyments in them.
To Miss Asenath and Miss Eudora, this was inexplicable,
but Anna, disciplined by years of ill health, had
a slight perception of higher, purer motives than any
which actuated the family at Terrace Hill. On
the occasion of little Mrs. Roe’s call it was
Anna who apologized for her presumption, saying that
Mrs. Roe really had the kindest of hearts; besides,
it was quite natural for the villagers not to stand
quite so much in awe of them now that their fortune
was declining, and as they could not make circumstances
conform to them, they must conform to circumstances.
Neither Asenath nor Eudora, nor the lady mother liked
this kind of conformation, but Anna was generally
right, and they did not annihilate Mrs. Roe with a
contemptuous frown as they had fully intended doing.
Mrs. Johnson and her daughter Alice had been present,
they heard, the latter actually joining in some of
the plays, and the new clergyman, Mr. Howard, had
suffered himself to be caught by Miss Alice, who disfigured
her luxuriant curls with a bandage, and played at blindman’s
buff. This proved conclusively to the elder ladies
of Terrace Hill that ministers were no better than
other people, and they congratulated themselves afresh
upon their escape from having one of the brotherhood
in thir family.

In this escape Anna was particularly interested, as
it had helped to make her the delicate creature she
was, for since the morning when she had knelt at her
proud father’s feet, and begged him to revoke
his cruel decision, and say she might be the bride
of a poor missionary, Anna had greatly changed, and
the father, ere he died, had questioned the propriety
of separating the hearts which clung so together.
But the young missionary had married another, and
neither the parents nor the sisters ever forgot the
look of anguish which stole into Anna’s face,
when she heard the fatal news. She had thought
herself prepared, but the news was just as crushing
when it came, accompanied, though it was with a few
last lines from him. Anna kept this letter yet,
wondering if the missionary remembered her yet, and
if they would ever meet again. This was the secret
of the missionary papers scattered so profusely through
the rooms at Terrace Hill. Anna was interested
in everything pertaining to the work, though, it must
be confessed, that her mind wandered oftenest to the
banks of the Bosphorus, the City of Mosques and Minarets,
where he was laboring. Neither the mother, nor
Asenath, nor Eudora ever spoke to her of him, and
so his name was never heard at Terrace Hill, unless
John mentioned it, as he sometimes did, drawing comical
pictures of what Anna would have been by this time
had she married the missionary.

Anna only laughed at her wild brother’s comments,
telling him once to beware, lest he, too, follow her
example, and was guilty of loving some one far beneath
him. John Richards had spurned the idea.
The wife who bore his name should be every way worthy
of a Richards. This was John’s theory,
nursed and encouraged by mother and sisters, the former
charging him to be sure and keep his heart from all
save the right one. Had he done so?

Page 23

A peep at the family as on the day of his expected
arrival from Paris they sat waiting for him will enlighten
us somewhat. Taken as a whole, it was a very
pleasant family group, which sat there waiting for
the foreign lion, waiting for the whistle of the engine
which was to herald his approach.

“I wonder if he has changed,” said the
mother, glancing at the opposite mirror and arranging
the puffs of glossy false hair which shaded her aristocratic
forehead.

“Of course he has changed somewhat,” returned
Miss Asenath, rubbing together her white, bony hands,
on one of which a costly diamond was flashing.
“Nearly two years of Paris society must have
imparted to him that air distingue so desirable
in a young man who has traveled.”

“He’ll hardly fail of making a good match
now,” Miss Eudora remarked, caressing the pet
spaniel which had climbed into her lap. “I
think we must manage to visit Saratoga or some of
those places next summer. Mr. Gardner found his
wife at Newport, and they say she’s worth half
a million.”

“But horridly ugly,” and Anna looked up
from the reverie in which she had been indulging.
“Lottie says she has tow hair and a face like
a fish. John would never be happy with such a
wife.”

“Possibly you think he had better have married
that sewing girl about whom he wrote us just before
going to Europe,” Miss Eudora said spitefully,
pinching the long silken ears of her pet until the
animal yelled with pain.

There was a faint sigh from the direction of Anna’s
chair, and all knew she was thinking of the missionary.
The mother continued:

“I trust he is over that fancy, and ready to
thank me for the strong letter I wrote him.”

“Yes, but the girl,” and Anna leaned her
white cheek in her whiter hand. “None of
us know the harm his leaving her may have done.
Don’t you remember he wrote how much she loved
him—­how gentle and confiding her nature
was, and how to leave her then might prove her ruin?”

“Our little Anna is growing very eloquent upon
the subject of sewing girls,” Miss Asenath said,
rather scornfully, and Anna rejoined:

“I am not sure she was a sewing girl. He
spoke of her as a schoolgirl.”

“But it is most likely he did that to mislead
us,” said the mother. “The only boarding
school he knows anything about is the one where Lottie
was. If he were not her uncle by marriage I should
not object to Lottie as a daughter,” was the
next remark, whereupon there ensued a conversation
touching the merits and demerits of a certain Lottie
Gardner, whose father had taken for a second wife Miss
Laura Richards.

Page 24

This Laura had died within a year of her marriage,
but Lottie had claimed relationship to the family
just the same, grandmaing Mrs. Richards and aunty-ing
the sisters. John, however, was never called
uncle, except in fun. He was too near her age,
the young lady frequently declaring that she had half
a mind to throw aside all family ties and lay siege
to the handsome young man, who really was very popular
with the fair sex. During this discussion of
Lottie, Anna had sat listlessly looking up and down
the columns of an old Herald, which Dick, Eudora’s
pet dog, had ferreted out from the table and deposited
at her feet. She evidently was not thinking of
Lottie, nor yet of the advertisements, until one struck
her notice as being very singular. Holding it
a little more to the light she said: “Possibly
this is the very person I want—­only the
child might be an objection. Just listen,”
and Anna read as follows:

“Wanted—­By an unfortunate
young married woman, with a child a few
months old, a situation in a private family
either as governess,
seamstress, or lady’s maid.
Country preferred. Address—­”

Anna was about to say whom when a violent ringing
of the bell announced an arrival, and the next moment
a tall young man, exceedingly Frenchified in his appearance,
entered the room, and was soon in the arms of his
mother.

John, hastening to where Anna sat, wound his arms
around her light figure, and kissed her white lips
and looked into her face with an expression, which
told that, however indifferent he might be to others,
he was not so to Anna.

“You have not changed for the worse,”
he said. “You are scarcely thinner than
when I went away.”

“And you are vastly improved,” was Anna’s
answer.

His mother continued: “I thought, perhaps,
you were offended at my plain letter concerning that
girl, and resented it by not coming, but of course
you are glad now, and see that mother was right.
What could you have done with a wife in Paris?”

“I should not have gone,” John answered,
moodily, a shadow stealing over his face.

It was not good taste for Mrs. Richards thus early
to introduce a topic on which John was really so sore,
and for a moment an awkward silence ensued, broken
at last by the mother again, who, feeling that all
was not right, and anxious to know if there was yet
aught to fear from a poor, unknown daughter-in-law,
asked, hesitatingly:

“Have you seen her since your return?”

“She’s dead,” was the laconic reply,
and then, as if anxious to change the conversation,
the young doctor turned to Anna and said: “Guess
who was my fellow traveler from Liverpool?”

Page 25

For an instant Anna trembled as if she saw opening
before her the grave which for fourteen years had
held her buried heart. Charlie was breathing
again the air of the same hemisphere with herself.
She might, perhaps, see him once more, and Hattie,
was she with him, or was there another grave made
with the Moslem dead by little Anna’s aide?
She would not ask, for she felt the cold, critical
eyes bent upon her from across the hearth, and a few
commonplace inquiries was all she ventured upon.
Had Mr. Millbrook greatly changed since he went away?
Did he look very sick? And how had her brother
liked him?

“I scarcely spoke to him,” was John’s
reply. “I confess to a most lamentable
ignorance touching the Rev. Mr. Millbrook and his family.
He wore crape on his hat, I remember, but there was
a lady with him to whom he was quite attentive, and
who, I think, was called by his name.”

“Tall, with black eyes, like Lottie’s?”
Anna meekly asked, and John replied: “Something
after the Lottie order, though more like yourself.”

“It’s strange I never saw a notice of
his expected return,” was Anna’s next
remark. “Perhaps it was in the last Missionary
Herald. You have not found it yet, have you,
mother?”

The ringing of the supper bell prevented Mrs. Richards
from answering. How gracefully he did the honors,
and how proud all were of him, as he repeated little
incidents of Parisian life, speaking of the emperor
and Eugenie as if they had been everyday sights to
him. In figure and form the fair empress reminded
him of Anna, he said, except that Anna was the prettier
of the two—­a compliment which Anna acknowledged
with a blush and a trembling of her long eyelashes.
It was a very pleasant family reunion, for John did
his best to be agreeable.

“Oh, John, please be careful. There’s
an advertisement I want to save,” Anna exclaimed,
as she saw her brother tearing a strip from the Herald
with which to light his cigar, but as she spoke, the
flame curled around the narrow strip, and Dr. Richards
had lighted his cigar with the name and address appended
to the advertisement which had so interested Anna.

How disturbed she was when she found that nought was
left save the simple wants of the young girl.

“Let’s see,” and taking the mutilated
sheet, Dr. Richards read the “Wanted, by a young
unfortunate married woman.”

“That unfortunate may mean a great deal more
than you imagine,” he said.

“Yes, but she distinctly says married.
Don’t you see, and I had really some idea of
writing to her.”

“I’m sorry I was so careless, but there
are a thousand unfortunate women who would gladly
be your maid, little sister. I’ll send you
out a score, if you say so,” and John laughed.

“Has anything of importance occurred in this
slow old town?” he inquired, after Anna had
become reconciled to her loss. “Are the
people as odd as usual?”

Page 26

“Yes, more so,” Miss Eudora thought, “and
more presuming,” whereupon she rehearsed the
annoyances to which they had been subjected from their
changed circumstances, dwelling at length upon Mrs.
Roe’s tea drinking, and the insult offered by
inviting them, when she knew there would be no one
present with whom they associated.

“You forget Mrs. Johnson,” interposed
Anna. “We would be glad to know her better
than we do, she is so refined and cultivated in all
her tastes, while Alice is the sweetest girl I ever
knew. By the way, brother, they have come here
since you left, consequently you have a rare pleasure
in store, the forming their acquaintance.”

“Whose, the old or the young lady’s?”
John asked.

“Both,” was Anna’s reply. “The
mother is very youthful in her appearance. Why,
she scarcely looks older than I, and I, you know, am
thirty-two.”

As if fearful lest her own age should come next under
consideration, Miss Eudora hastened to say:

“Yes, Mrs. Johnson does look very young, and
Alice seems like a child. Such beautiful hair
as she has. It used to be a bright yellow, or
golden, but now it has a darker, richer shade, while
her eyes are the softest, handsomest blue.”

Alice Johnson was evidently a favorite, and this stamped
her somebody, so John began to ask who the Johnsons
were.

Mrs. Richards seemed disposed to answer, which she
did as follows:

“Mrs. Johnson used to live in Boston, and her
husband was grandson of old Governor Johnson.”

“Ah, yes,” and John began to laugh.
“I see now what gives Miss Alice’s hair
that peculiar shade, and her eyes that heavenly blue;
but go on, mother, and give her figure as soon as
may be.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna. “I
should suppose you’d care more for her face
than her form.”

John smiled mischievously, while his mother continued:

“I fancy that Mrs. Johnson’s family met
with a reverse of fortune before her marriage.
I do not see her as often as I would like to, for I
am greatly pleased with her, although she has some
habits of which I cannot approve. Why, I hear
that Alice had a party the other day consisting-wholly
of ragged urchins.”

“They were her Sabbath school scholars,”
interposed Anna.

“I vote that Anna goes on with Alice’s
history. She gives it best,” said John,
and so Anna continued:

“There is but little more to tell. Mrs.
Johnson and her daughter are both nice ladies, and
I am sure you will like them—­everybody does;
and rumor has already given Alice to our young clergyman,
Mr. Howard.”

“And she is worth fifty thousand dollars, too,”
rejoined Asenath.

“I have her figure at last,” said John,
winking slyly at Anna.

And, indeed, the fifty thousand dollars did seem to
make an impression on the young man, who grew interested
at once, making numerous inquiries, asking where he
would be most likely to see her.

Page 27

Dr. Richards was exceedingly vain, and his vanity
manifested itself from the tie of his neckerchief
down to the polish of his boots. Once, had Hugh
Worthington known him intimately, he would have admitted
that there was at least one man whose toilet occupied
quite as much time as Adaline’s. In Paris
the vain doctor had indulged in the luxury of a valet,
carefully keeping it a secret from his mother and sisters,
who were often compelled to deny themselves that the
money he asked for so often might be forthcoming.
But that piece of extravagance was over now; he dared
not bring his valet home, though he sadly wished him
there as he meditated upon the appearance he would
make in church next Sabbath. He was glad there
was something new and interesting in Snowdon in the
shape of a pretty girl, for he did not care to return
at once to New York, where he had intended practicing
his profession. There were too many sad memories
clustering about that city to make it altogether desirable,
but Dr. Richards was not yet a hardened wretch, and
thoughts of another than Alice Johnson, with her glorious
hair and still more glorious figure, crowded upon
his mind as on that first evening of his return, he
sat answering questions and asking others of his own.

It was late ere the family group broke up, and the
storm, beating so furiously upon Spring Bank, was
just making its voice heard around Terrace Hill mansion,
when the doctor took the lamp the servant brought,
and bidding his mother and sisters good-night, ascended
the stairs whither Anna had gone before him.
She was not, however, in bed, and called softly to
him:

“John, Brother John, come in a moment, please.”

CHAPTER V

ANNA AND JOHN

He found her in a tasteful gown, its heavy tassels
almost sweeping the floor, while her long, glossy
hair, loosened from its confinement of ribbon and
comb, covered her neck and shoulders as she sat before
the fire always kindled in her room.

“I was so young in the days when he came wooing
that I hardly remember how he used to look. I
should not have known him, but my impression is that
he looks about as well as men of forty usually look.”

“Not forty, John, only thirty-eight,”
Anna interposed.

“Well, thirty-eight, then. You remember
his age remarkably well,” John said, laughingly,
adding: “Did you once love him very much?”

“Yes,” and Anna’s voice faltered
a little.

“Why didn’t you marry him, then?”

John spoke excitedly, and the flush deepened on his
cheek when Anna answered meekly:

“Why didn’t you marry that poor girl?”

Page 28

“Why didn’t I?” and John started
to his feet; then he continued: “Anna,
I tell you there’s a heap of wrong for somebody
to answer for, but it is not you, and it is not me—­it’s—­it’s
mother!” and John whispered the word, as if
fearful lest the proud, overbearing woman should hear.

“You are mistaken,” Anna replied, “for
as far as Charlie was concerned father had more to
do with it than mother. I’ve never seen
him since. He did marry another, but I’ve
never quite believed that he forgot me.”

Anna was talking now more to herself than to John,
and Charlie, could he have seen her, would have said
she was not far from the narrow way which leadeth
unto life. To John her white face, irradiated
with gleams of the soft firelight, was as the face
of an angel, and for a time he kept silence before
her, then suddenly exclaimed:

“Anna, you are good, and so was she, so good,
so pure, so artless, and that made it hard to leave
her, to give her up. Anna, do you know what my
mother wrote me? Listen, while I tell, then see
if she is not to blame. She cruelly reminded
me that by my father’s will all of us, save
you, were wholly dependent upon her, and said the moment
I threw myself away upon a low, vulgar, penniless
girl, that moment she’d cast me off, and I might
earn my bread and hers as best I could. She said,
too, my sisters, Anna and all, sanctioned what she
wrote, and your opinion had more weight than all the
rest.”

“Oh, John, mother could not have so misconstrued
my words. Surely my note explained—­I
sent one in mother’s letter.”

“It never reached me,” John said, while
Anna sighed at this proof of her mother’s treachery.

Always conciliatory, however, she soon remarked:

“You are sole male heir to the Richards name.
Mother’s heart and pride are bound up in you.
A poor, unknown girl would only add to our expenses,
and not help you in the least. What was her name?
I’ve never heard.”

John hesitated, then answered: “I called
her Lily, she was so fair and pure.”

Anna was never in the least suspicious, but took all
things for granted, so now she thought within herself,
“Lilian, most likely.” Then she said:
“You were not engaged to her, were you?”

John started forward, and gazed into his sister’s
face with an expression as if he wished she would
question him more closely, but Anna never dreamed
of a secret, and seeing him hesitate, she said:

“You need not tell me unless you like.
I only thought, maybe, you and Lily were not engaged.”

“We were. Anna, I’m a wretch—­a
miserable wretch, and have scarcely known an hour’s
peace since I left her.”

“Was there a scene?” Anna asked; and John
replied:

“Worse than that. Worse for her. She
did not know I was going till I was gone. I wrote
to her from Paris, for I could not meet her face and
tell her how mean I was. I’ve thought of
her so much, and when I landed in New York I went
at once to find her, or at least to inquire, hoping
she’d forgotten me. The beldame who kept
the place was not the same with whom I had left Lily,
but she know about her, and told me she died with
cholera last September. She and—­oh,
Lily, Lily—­” and hiding his face
in Anna’s lap, John Richards, whom we have only
seen as a traveled dandy, sobbed like a little child.

Page 29

“John,” she said at last, when the sobbing
had ceased, “You say this Lily was good.
Do you mean she was a Christian, like Charlie?”

“Yes, if there ever was one. Why, she used
to make a villain like me kneel with her every night,
and say the Lord’s Prayer.”

For an instant, a puzzling thought crossed Anna’s
brain as to the circumstances which could have brought
her brother every night to Lily’s side, but
it passed away immediately as she rejoined:

“Then she is safe in heaven, and there are no
tears there. We’ll try to meet her some
day. You could not help her dying. She might
have died had she been your wife, so I’d try
to think it happened for the best, and you’ll
soon get to believing it did. That’s my
experience. You are young yet, and life has much
in store for you. You’ll find some one to
fill Lily’s place; some one whom we shall all
think worthy of you, and we’ll be so
happy together.”

She did not speak of Alice Johnson, but she thought
of her. John, too, thought of Alice Johnson,
wondering how she would look to him who might have
married the daughter of a count. He had not told
Anna of this, and he was about preparing to leave
her, when, changing the conversation, she said:

“Did we ever write to you—­no, we
didn’t—­about that mysterious stranger,
that man who stopped for a day or two at the hotel,
nearly two years ago, and made so many inquiries about
us and our place, pretending he wanted to buy it in
exchange for city property, and that some one had
told him it was for sale?”

“What man? Who was he?” John asked;
and Anna replied:

“He called himself Bronson.”

“Describe him,” John said, settling back
so that his face was partly concealed in the shadow.

“Rather tall, firmly-knit figure, with what
I imagine people mean when they say a bullet-head,
that is, a round, hard head, with keen gray eyes,
sandy mustache, and a scar or something on his right
temple. Are you cold?” and she turned quickly
to her brother, who had shuddered involuntarily at
her description, for well he knew now who that man
was.

But why had he come there? This John did not
know, and as it was necessary to appear natural, he
answered to Anna’s inquiry, that he thought
he had taken cold, as the cars were badly warmed.

“But, go on; tell me more of this Bronson.
He heard our house was for sale. How, pray?”

“From some one in New York; and the landlord
suggested it might have been you.”

“It’s false. I never told him so,”
and John spoke savagely.

“Then you did know him? What was he?
We were half afraid of him, he behaved so strangely,”
Anna said, looking wonderingly at her brother, whose
face alternately flushed and then grew pale.

Simple little Anna, how John blessed her in his heart
for possessing so little insight into the genuine
springs of his character, for when he answered:

Page 30

“Of course I don’t know him—­I
mean that I never told any one that Terrace Hill was
for sale.”

She believed what he said, and very innocently continued:

“Had there been a trifle more of fun in my nature,
I should, have teased Eudora, by telling her he came
here to see her or Asenath. He was very curious
for a sight of all of us.”

“Did he come here—­into the house?”
John asked; and Anna replied:

“Why, yes. He was rather coarse-looking,
to be sure, with marks of dissipation, but very gentlemanly
and even pleasing in his address.”

Anna went on: “He was exceedingly polite—­apologized
for troubling me, and then stated his business.
I told him he must have been misinformed, as we never
dreamed of selling. He took his leave, looking
back all the way through the park, and evidently examining
minutely the house and grounds. Mother was so
fidgety after it, declaring him a burglar, and keeping
a watch for several nights after his departure.”

“Undoubtedly he was,” said John.
“A burglar, I dare say, and you were fortunate,
all of you, in not being stolen from your beds as you
lay sleeping.”

“Oh, we keep our doors locked,” was Anna’s
demure reply.

“Midnight, as I live!” he exclaimed, and
was glad of an excuse for retiring, as he wished now
to be alone.

Anna had not asked him half what she had meant to
ask concerning Charlie, but she would not keep him
longer, and with a kiss upon his handsome brow she
sent him away, herself holding the door a little ajar
and listening to see what effect the new carpet would
have upon him. It did not have any at first,
so much was he absorbed in that man with the scar
upon his temple. Why had he come there, and why
had it not been told him before? His people were
so stupid in their letters, never telling what was
sure to interest him most. But what good could
it have done had he known of the mysterious visit?
None whatever—­at least nothing particular
had resulted from it, he was sure.

“It must have been just after one of his sprees,
when he is always more than half befogged,”
he said to himself. “Possibly he was passing
this way and the insane idea seized him to stop and
pretend to buy Terrace Hill. The rascal!”
and having thus satisfactorily settled it in his mind,
the doctor did look at Anna’s carpet, admiring
its pattern, and having a kind of pleasant consciousness
that everything was in keeping, from the handsome
drapery which shaded the windows to the marble hearth
on which a fire was blazing.

In Adah Hastings’ dream that night there were
visions of a little room far up in a fourth story,
where her fair head was pillowed again upon the manly
arm of one who listened while she chided him gently
for his long delay, and then told him of their Willie
boy so much like him, as the young mother thought.

In Dr. Richards’ dreams, when at last he slept,
there were visions of a lonely grave in a secluded
part of Greenwood, and he heard again the startling
words:

Page 31

“Dead, both she and the child.”

He did not know there was a child, and he staggered
in his sleep, just as he staggered down the creaking
stairs, repeating to himself:

“Lily’s child—­Lily’s
child. May Lily’s God forgive me.”

CHAPTER VI

ALICE JOHNSON

The Sabbath dawned at last. The doctor had not
yet made his appearance in the village, and Saturday
had been spent by him in rehearsing to his sisters
and the servants the wonderful things he had seen abroad,
and in lounging listlessly by a window which overlooked
the town, and also commanded a view of the tasteful
cottage by the riverside, where they told him Mrs.
Johnson lived. One upper window he watched with
peculiar interest, from the fact that, early in the
day, a head had protruded from it a moment, as if
to inhale the wintry air, and then been quickly withdrawn.

“Does Miss Johnson wear curls?” he asked,
rather indifferently, with his eye still on the cottage
by the river.

“Yes; a great profusion of them,” was
Mrs. Richards’ reply, and then the doctor knew
he had caught a glimpse of Alice Johnson, for the head
he had seen was covered with curls, he was sure.

But little good did a view at that distance afford
him. He must see her nearer ere he decided as
to her merits to be a belle. He did not believe
her face would at all compare with the one which continually
haunted his dreams, and over which the coffin lid
was shut weary months ago, but fifty thousand dollars
had invested Miss Alice with that peculiar charm which
will sometimes make an ugly face beautiful. The
doctor was beginning to feel the need of funds, and
now that Lily was dead, the thought had more than
once crossed his mind that to set himself at once
to the task of finding a wealthy wife was a duty he
owed himself and his family. Had poor, deserted
Lily lived; had he found her in New York, he could
not tell what he might have done, for the memory of
her sweet, gentle love was the one restraining influence
which kept him from much sin. He never could
forget her; never love another as he had once loved
her, but she was dead, and it was better, so he reasoned,
for now was he free to do his mother’s will,
and take a wife worthy of a Richards.

Anna was not with the party which at the usual hour
entered the family carriage with Bibles and prayer
books in hand. She seldom went out except on
warm, pleasant days; but she stood in the deep bay
window watching the carriage as it wound down the
hill, thinking first how pleasant and homelike the
Sabbath bells must sound to Charlie this day, and
secondly, how handsome and stylish her young brother
looked with his Parisian cloak and cap, which he wore
so gracefully. Others than Anna thought so, too;
and at the church door there was quite a little stir,
as he gallantly handed out first his mother and then
his sisters, and followed them into the church.

Page 32

Dr. Richards had never enjoyed a reputation for being
very devotional, and the interval between his entrance
and the commencement of the service was passed by
him in a rather scornful survey of the time-worn house.
With a sneer in his heart, he mentally compared the
old-fashioned pulpit, with its steep flight of steps
and faded trimmings, with the lofty cathedral he had
been in the habit of attending in Paris, and a feeling
of disgust and contempt was creeping over him, when
a soft rustling of silk, and a consciousness of a
delicate perfume, which he at once recognized as aristocratic,
warned him that somebody was coming; somebody entirely
different from the score of females who had distributed
themselves within range of his vision, their countrified
bonnets, as he termed them, trimmed outside and in
without the least regard to taste, or combination
of color. But the little lady, moving so quietly
up the aisle—­she was different. She
was worthy of respect, and the Paris beau felt an
inclination to rise at once and acknowledge her superior
presence.

Wholly unconscious of the interest she was exciting,
the lady deposited her muff upon the cushions, and
then kneeling reverently upon the well-worn stool,
covered her face with the hands which had so won the
doctor’s admiration. What a little creature
she was, scarcely larger than a child twelve summers
old, and how gloriously beautiful were the curls of
indescribable hue, falling in such profusion from beneath
the jaunty hat. All this Dr. Richards noted,
marveling that she knelt so long, and wondering what
she could be saying.

Alice’s devotion ended at last, and the view
so coveted was obtained; for in adjusting her dress
Alice turned toward him, or rather toward his mother,
and the doctor drew a sudden breath as he met the brilliant
flashing of those laughing sunny blue eyes, and caught
the radiant expression of that face, slightly dimpled
with a smile. Beautiful, wondrously beautiful
was Alice Johnson, and yet the features were not wholly
regular, for the piquant nose had a slight turn up,
and the forehead was not very high; but for all this,
the glossy hair, the dancing blue eyes, the apple-blossom
complexion, and the rosebud mouth made ample amends;
and Dr. Richards saw no fault in that witching face,
flashing its blue eyes for an instant upon him, and
then modestly turning to the service just commencing.
So absorbed was Dr. Richards as not to notice that
the strain of music filling the old church did not
come from the screeching melodeon he had so anathematized,
but from an organ as mellow and sweet in its tone
as any he had heard across the sea. He did not
notice anything; and when his sister, surprised at
his sitting posture, whispered to him of her surprise,
he started quickly, and next time the congregation
arose he was the first upon his feet, mingling his
voice with that of Alice Johnson and even excelling
her in the loudness of his reading!

As if divining his wishes in the matter, his mother
turned to the eagerly expectant doctor, whom she introduced
as “My son, Dr. Richards.”

Page 33

Alice had heard much of Dr. Richards from the young
girls of Snowdon. She had heard his voice in
the Psalter, his responses in the Litany, and accepted
it as a sign of marked improvement. He could not
be as irreverent and thoughtless as he had been represented
by those who did not like him; he must have changed
during his absence, and she frankly offered him her
hand, and with a smile which he felt even to his finder
tips, welcomed him home, making some trivial remark
touching the contrast between their quiet town and
the cities he had left.

“But you will help make it pleasanter for us
this winter, I am sure,” she continued, and
the sweet blue eyes sought his for an answer as to
whether he would desert Snowdon immediately.

What a weak, vacillating creature is man before a
pretty woman like Alice Johnson. Twenty-four
hours ago, and the doctor would have scoffed at the
idea that he should tarry longer than a week or two
at the farthest in that dull by-place, where the people
were only half civilized; but now the tables were
turned as by magic. Snowdon was as pretty a rural
village as New England could boast, and he meant to
enjoy it for a while. It would be a relief after
the busy life he had led, and was just the change
he needed! So, in answer to Alice’s remark,
he said he should probably remain at home some time,
that he always found it rather pleasant at Snowdon,
though as a boy he had, he supposed, often chafed
at its dullness; but he saw differently now. Besides,
it could not now be dull, with the acquisition it
had received since he was there before; and he bowed
gracefully toward the young lady, who acknowledged
the compliment with a faint blush, and then turned
toward the group of “noisy, ill-bred children,”
as Dr. Richards thought, who came thronging about
her.

“My Sabbath school scholars,” Alice said,
as if in answer to these mental queries, “Ah,
here comes my youngest—­my pet,” and
Alice stooped to caress a little rosy-cheeked boy,
with bright brown eyes and patches on both coat sleeves.

The doctor saw the patches, but not the handsome face,
and with a gesture of impatience, turned to go, just
as his ear caught another kiss, and he knew the patched
boy received what he would have given much to have.

“Hanged if I don’t half wish I was one
of those ragged urchins,” he said, after handing
his mother and sisters to their carriage, and seating
himself at their side. “But does not Miss
Johnson display strange taste? Surely some other
one less refined might be found to look after those
brats, if they must be looked after, which I greatly
doubt. Better leave them, as you find them; can’t
elevate them if you try. It’s trouble thrown
away.”

Just before turning from the main road into the park
which led to Terrace Hill, they met a stylish little
covered sleigh. The colored driver politely touched
big hat to the ladies, who leaned out a moment to
look after him.

Page 34

“That’s Mrs. Johnson’s turnout,”
said Eudora. “In the winter Martin always
takes Alice to church and then returns for her.”

“And folks say,” interposed Asenath, “that
if the walking is bad or the weather cold, both Alice
and her mother go two miles out of their way to carry
home some old woman or little child, who lives at a
distance. I’ve seen Alice myself with half
a dozen or more of these children, and she looked
as proud and happy as a queen. Queer taste, isn’t
it?”

John thought it was, though he himself said:
“It is like what Lily would have done, had she
possessed the power and means.”

“Well, brother, what of Miss Alice? Was
she at church?” Anna asked softly. “I
need not ask though, for of course she was. I
should almost as soon think of hearing that Mr. Howard
himself was absent as Alice.”

“That reminds me,” said John, “of
what you said concerning Mr. Howard and Alice.
There can’t be any truth in it. She surely
does not fancy him.”

“Not as a lover,” Anna replied. “She
respects him greatly, however, because he is a clergyman.”

“Is she then a very strong church woman?”
John asked.

“Yes, but not a bit of a blue,” Anna replied.
“If all Christians were like Alice, religion
would be divested of much of its supposed gloom.
She shows it everywhere, and so does not have to wear
it on set occasions to prove that she possesses it.
How were you pleased with Miss Johnson?”

“How was I pleased with her? I felt like
kissing the hem of her blue silk, of course!
But I tell you, Anna, those ragged, dirty urchins who
came trooping into that damask-cushioned pew, marred
the picture terribly. What possible pleasure
can she take in teaching them?”

Anna had an idea of the pleasure it might be to feel
that one was doing good, but she could not explain
lucidly, so she did not attempt it. She only
said Miss Alice was very benevolent and received her
reward in the love bestowed upon her so freely by
those whom she befriended.

“And to win her good graces, must one pretend
to be interested in those ragamuffins?” John
asked, a little spitefully.

“Why, no, not unless they were. Alice could
not wish you to be deceitful,” was Anna’s
reply, after which a long silence ensued, and Anna
dropped away to sleep, while her brother sat watching
the fire blazing in the grate, and trying to decide
as to his future course.

Should he return to New York, accept the offer of
an old friend of his father’s, an experienced
practitioner, and thus earn his own bread honorably;
or, should he remain a while at Snowdon and cultivate
Alice Johnson? He had never yet failed when he
chose to exert himself, and though he might, for a
time, be compelled to adopt a different code of morality
from that which he at present acknowledged, he would
do it for once. He could be interested in those
ragged children; he could encourage Sunday schools;

Page 35

he could attend church as regularly as Alice herself;
and, better yet, he could doctor the poor for nothing,
as that was sure to tell, and he would do it, too,
if necessary. This was the finale which he reached
at last by a series of arguments pro and con, and
when it was reached, he was anxious to commence the
task at once. He presumed he could love Alice
Johnson; she was so pretty; but even if he didn’t,
he would only be doing what thousands had done before
him. He should be very proud of her, and would
certainly try to make her happy. One long, almost
sobbing sigh to the memory of poor Lily, who had loved
so much and been so cruelly betrayed, one faint struggle
with conscience, which said that Alice Johnson was
too pure a gem for him to trifle with, and then, the
past, with its sad memories, was buried.

“Not going to church twice in one day!”
Mrs. Richards exclaimed as the doctor threw aside
the book he had been reading, and started for his
cloak.

“Why, yes,” he answered. “I
liked that parson so much better than I expected,
that I think I’ll go again,” and hurrying
out, he was soon on his way to St. Paul’s.

“Gone on foot, too, when it’s so cold!”
and the mother, who had risen and stood watching him
from the window, spoke anxiously.

The service was commencing, but the doctor was in
no hurry to take his seat. He would as soon be
seen as not, and, vain fop that he was, he rather
enjoyed the stirring of heads he felt would ensue when
he moved up the aisle. At last he would wait
no longer, and with a most deferential manner, as
if asking pardon for disturbing the congregation,
he walked to his pew door, and depositing his hat and
cloak, sat down just where he meant to sit, next the
little figure, at which he did not glance, knowing,
of course, that it was Alice.

How then was he astonished and confounded when at
the reading of the Psalter, another voice than hers
greeted his ear!—­a strange, sharp voice,
whose tones were not as indicative of refinement as
Alice’s had been, and whose pronunciation, distinctly
heard, savored somewhat of the so-called down East.
He looked at her now, moving off a foot or more, and
found her a little, odd, old woman, shriveled and withered,
with velvet hat, not of the latest style, its well-kept
strings of black vastly different from the glossy
blue he had so much admired at an earlier period of
the day. Was ever man more disappointed?
Who was she, the old witch, for so he mentally termed
the inoffensive woman devoutly conning her prayer
book, unconscious of the wrath her presence was exciting
in the bosom of the young man beside her! How
he wished he had stayed at home, and were it not that
he sat so far distant from the door, he would certainly
have left in disgust. What a drawling tone was
Mr. Howard’s.

Page 36

Such were the doctor’s thoughts. But hark!
Whose voice was that? The congregation seemed
to hold their breath as the glorious singer warbled
forth the bird-like strain, “Thou that takest
away the sins of the world.” She sang those
words as if she felt them every one, and Dr. Richards’
heart thrilled with an indefinable emotion us he listened.
“Thou that sittest on the right hand of God the
Father;” how rich and full her voice as she
sang that alone; and when the final Amen was reached,
and the grand old chant was ended, Dr. Richards sat
like one entranced, straining his ear to catch the
last faint echo of the sweetest music he had ever
heard.

Could Alice sing like that, and who was this nightingale?
How he wished he knew; and when next the people arose,
obedient to the organ’s call, he was of their
number, and turning full about, looked up into the
gallery, starting as he looked, and half uttering an
exclamation of surprise. There was no mistaking
the Russian sable fur, the wide blue ribbons thrown
so gracefully back, the wealth of sunny hair, or the
lustrous eyes, which swept for an instant over the
congregation below, taking in him with the rest, and
then were dropped upon the keys, where the snowy,
ungloved hands were straying. The organist was
Alice Johnson! There were no more regrets now
that he had come to church, no more longings to be
away, no more maledictions against Mr. Howard’s
drawling manner, no more invectives against the poor
old woman, listening like himself with rapt attention,
and wondering if the music of heaven could be sweeter
than that her bonny Alice made. The doctor, too,
felt better for such music, and he never remembered
having been more attentive to a sermon in his life
than to the one, which followed the evening service.

When it was ended, and the people dismissed, she came
tripping down the stairs, flooding the dingy vestibule
with a world of sunshine.

“Here, Aunt Densie, here I am. Martin is
waiting for us,” the doctor heard her say to
the old lady, who was elbowing her way through the
crowd, and who at last came to a standstill, apparently
looking for something she could not find. “What
is it, auntie?” Alice said again. “Lost
something, have you? I’ll be with you in
a minute.”

Two hours ago, and Dr. Richards would not have cared
if fifty old women had lost their entire wardrobe.
As an attache of some kind to Alice Johnson, Densie
was an object of importance, and stepping forward,
just as Alice had made her way to the distressed old
lady’s side, he very politely offered to assist
in the search.

“Ah, Dr. Richards, thank you,” Alice said,
as the black kid was found, and passed to its anxious
owner.

The doctor never dreamed of an introduction, for his
practiced eye saw at once that however Alice might
auntie her, the woman was still a servant. How
then was he surprised when Alice said:

“Miss Densmore, this is Dr. Richards, from Terrace
Hill,” adding, in an aside to him: “My
old nurse, who took care of both mother and myself
when we were children.”

Page 37

They were standing in the door now, and the covered
sleigh was drawn up just in front.

“Auntie first,” she said, as they reached
the carriage steps, and so the doctor was fain to
help auntie in, whispering gallantly in an aside:

“Age before beauty always!”

“Thank you,” and Alice’s ringing
laugh cut the winter air as she followed Densie Densmore,
the doctor carefully wrapping her cloak about her,
and asking if her fur was pulled up sufficiently around
her neck.

“It’s very cold,” he said, glancing
up at the glittering stars, scarcely brighter than
the blue eyes flashing on him. “At least
I found it so on my walk to church,” and with
a slight shiver the scheming doctor was bowing himself
away, when Alice exclaimed:

“Did you walk this wintry night? Pray,
gratify me then by accepting a seat in our sleigh.
There’s plenty of room without crowding auntie.”

Happy Dr. Richards! How he exerted himself to
be agreeable, talking about the singing, asking if
she often honored the people as she had to-night.

“I take Miss Fisher’s place when she is
absent,” Alice replied, whereupon, the doctor
said he must have her up at Terrace Hill some day,
to try Anna’s long-neglected instrument.
“It was once a most superb affair, but I believe
it is sadly out of tune. Anna is very fond of
you, Miss Johnson, and your visits would benefit her
greatly. I assure you there’s a duty of
charity to be discharged at Terrace Hill as well as
elsewhere. Anna suffers from too close confinement
indoors, but, with a little skill, I think we can
manage to get her out once more. Shall we try?”

Selfish Dr. Richards! It was all the same to
him whether Anna went out once a day or once a year,
but Alice did not suspect him and she answered frankly
that she should have visited Terrace Hill more frequently,
had she supposed his mothers and sisters cared particularly
for society, but she had always fancied they preferred
being alone.

CHAPTER VII

RIVERSIDE COTTAGE

Mrs. Johnson did not like Dr. Richards, and yet he
became an almost daily visitor at Riverside Cottage,
where one face at least grew brighter when he came,
and one pair of eyes beamed on him a welcome.
His new code of morality worked admirably. Mr.
Howard himself was not more regular at church, or
Alice more devout, than Dr. Richards. The children,
whom he had denominated “ragged brats,”
were no longer spurned with contempt, but fed with
peanuts and molasses candy. He was popular with
the children, but the parents, clear-sighted, treated
him most shabbily at his back, accusing him of caring
only for Miss Alice’s good opinion.

This was what the poor said, and what many others
thought. Even Anna, who took everything for what
it seemed, roused herself and more than once remonstrated
with her brother upon the course he was pursuing, if
he were not in earnest, as something he once said to
her made her half suspect.

Page 38

She had become very intimate with Alice latterly,
and as her health improved with the coming of spring,
almost every fine day found her at Riverside Cottage,
where once she and Mrs. Johnson stumbled upon a confidential
chat, having for its subject John and Alice, Anna said
nothing against her brother. She merely spoke
of him as kind and affectionate, but the quick-seeing
mother detected more than the words implied, and after
that the elegant doctor was less welcome to her fireside
than, he had been before.

As the winter passed away and spring advanced, he
showed no intentions of leaving Snowdon, but on the
contrary opened an office in the village, greatly
to the surprise of the inhabitants, who remembered
his former contempt for any one who could settle down
in that dull town, and greatly to the dismay of old
Dr. Rogers, who for years had blistered and bled the
good people without a fear of rivalry.

“Mother,” she said gently, “you
look pale and worried. You have looked so for
some time past. What is it, mother? Are you
very sick, or are you troubled about me?”

“Is there any reason why I should be troubled
about my darling?” asked the mother.

Alice never had any secrets from her mother, and she
answered frankly: “I don’t know,
unless—­unless—­mother, why don’t
you like Dr. Richards?”

The ice was fairly broken now, and very briefly but
candidly Mrs. Johnson told why she did not like him.
He was handsome, refined, educated, and agreeable,
she admitted, but still there was something lacking.
The mask he was wearing had not deceived her, and she
would have liked him far better without it. This
she said to Alice, adding gently: “He may
be all he seems, but I doubt it. I distrust him
greatly. I think he fancies you and loves your
money.”

“Oh, mother,” and in Alice’s voice
there was a sound of tears, “you do him injustice,
and he has been so kind to us, while Snowdon is so
much pleasanter since he came.”

“Are you engaged to him?” was Mrs. Johnson’s
next question.

“No,” and Alice looked up wonderingly.
“I do not believe I like him well enough for
that.”

Alice Johnson was wholly ingenuous and would not for
the world have concealed a thing from her mother,
and very frankly she continued:

“I like Dr. Richards better than any gentleman
I have ever met. I should have told you, mother.”

“God bless my darling, and keep her as innocent
as now,” Mrs. Johnson murmured. “I
am glad there is no engagement. Will you promise
there shall not be for one year at least?”

“Yes, I will, I do,” Alice said at last.

A second “God bless my darling,” came
from the mother’s lips, and drawing her treasure
nearer to her, she continued: “You have
made me very happy, and by and by you’ll be
so glad. You may leave me now, for I am tired
and sick.”

Page 39

It was long ere Alice forgot the expression of her
mother’s face or the sound of her voice, so
full of love and tenderness, as she bade her good-night
on that last evening they ever spent together alone.
The indisposition of which Mrs. Johnson had been complaining
for several days, proved to be no light matter, and
when next morning Dr. Rogers was summoned to her bedside,
he decided it to be a fever which was then prevailing
to some extent in the neighboring towns.

That afternoon it was told at Terrace Hill that Mrs.
Johnson was very sick, and half an hour later the
Richards carriage, containing the doctor and his Sister
Anna, wound down the hill, and passing through the
park, turned in the direction of the cottage, where
they found Mrs. Johnson even worse than they had anticipated.
The sight of distress aroused Anna at once, and forgetting
her own feebleness she kindly offered to stay until
night if she could be of any service. Mrs. Johnson
was fond of Anna, and she expressed her pleasure so
eagerly that Anna decided to remain, and went with
Alice to remove her wrappings.

“Oh, I forgot!” she exclaimed, as a sudden
thought seemed to strike her. “I don’t
know as I can stay after all, though I might write
it here, I suppose as well as at home; and as John
is going to New York to-night he will take it along.”

“What is it?” Alice asked; and Anna replied:

“You’ll think me very foolish, no doubt,
but I want to know if you too think so. I’m
so dependent on other’s opinions,” and,
in a low tone, Anna told of the advertisement seen
early last winter, how queerly it was expressed, and
how careless John had been in tearing off the name
and address, with which to light his cigar. “It
seems to me,” she continued, “that ‘unfortunate
married woman’ is the very one I want.”

“Yes; but how will you find her? I understand
that the address was burned,” Alice rejoined
quickly, feeling herself that Anna was hardly sane
in her calculations.

“Oh, I’ve used that in the wording,”
Anna answered. “I do not know as it will
ever reach her, it’s been so long, but if it
does, she’ll be sure to know I mean her, or
somebody like her.”

“I dislike writing very much,” she said,
as she saw the array of materials, “and I write
so illegibly too. Please do it for me, that’s
a dear, good girl,” and she gave the pen to
Alice, who wrote the first word, “Wanted,”
and then waited for Anna to dictate.

“Wanted—­By an invalid
lady, whose home is in the country, a young woman,
who will be both useful and agreeable, either as a
companion or waiting maid. No objection will
be raised if the woman is married, and unfortunate,
or has a child a few months old. Address,

“A.E.R., Snowdon, Hampden Co., Mass.”

Alice thought it the queerest advertisement she had
ever seen, but Anna was privileged to do queer things,
and folding the paper, she went out into the hall,
where the doctor sat waiting for her.

Page 40

John’s mustached lip curled a little scornfully
as he read it.

“Why, puss, that girl or woman is in Georgia
by this time, and as the result of this, Terrace Hill
will be thronged with unfortunate women and children,
desiring situations. Better let me burn this,
as I did the other, and not be foolish. She will
never see it,” and John made a gesture as if
he would put it in the stove, but Anna caught his hand,
saying imploringly: “Please humor me this
once. She may see it, and I’m so interested.”

Anna was always humored, and the doctor placed in
his memorandum book the note, then turning to Alice
he addressed her in so low a tone that Anna readily
took the hint and left them together. Dr. Richards
was not intending to be gone long, he said, though
the time would seem a little eternity, so much was
his heart now bound up in Snowdon.

Afraid lest he might say something more of the same
nature, Alice hastened to ask if he had seen her mother,
and what he thought of her.

“I stepped in for a moment while you were in
the library,” he replied. “She seemed
to have a high fever, and I fancied it increased while
I stood by her. I am sorry to leave while she
is so sick, but remember that if anything happens
you will be dearer to me than ever,” and the
doctor pressed the little hand which he took in his
to say good-by, for now he must really go.

As the day and night wore on Mrs. Johnson grew worse
so rapidly, that at her request a telegram was forwarded
to Mr. Liston, who had charge of her moneyed affairs,
and who came at once, for the kind old man was deeply
interested in the widow and her lovely daughter.
As Mrs. Johnson, could bear it, they talked alone
together until he perfectly understood what her wishes
were with regard to Alice, and how to deal with Dr.
Richards, whom he had not yet seen. Then promising
to return again in case the worst should happen, he
took his leave, while Mrs. Johnson, now that a weight
was lifted from her mind, seemed to rally, and the
physician pronounced her better. But with that
strange foreknowledge, as it were, which sometimes
comes to people whose days are nearly numbered, she
felt that she would die, and that in mercy this interval
of rest and freedom from pain was granted her, in
which she might talk with Alice concerning the arrangements
for the future.

“Alice, darling,” she said, when they
were alone, “come sit by me here on the bed
and listen to what I say.”

Alice obeyed, and taking her mother’s hot hands
in hers she waited for what was to come.

“You have learned to trust God in prosperity,
and He will be a thousandfold nearer to you in adversity.
You’ll miss me, I know, and be very lonely without
me, but you are young, and life has many charms for
you, besides God will never forget or forsake His covenant
children.”

Gradually as she talked the wild sobbing ceased, and
when the white face lifted itself from its hiding
place there was a look upon it as if the needed strength
had been sought and to some extent imparted.

Page 41

“My will was made some time ago,” Mrs.
Johnson continued, “and I need not tell you
that with a few exceptions, such as legacies to Densie
Densmore, and some charitable institutions, you are
my sole heir. Mr. Liston is to be your guardian,
and will look after your interests until you are of
age, or longer if you choose. You know that as
both your father and myself were the only children
you have no near relatives on either side—­none
to whom you can look for protection.

“You will remember having heard me speak occasionally
of some friends now living in Kentucky, a Mrs. Worthington,
whose husband was a distant relative of ours.
Ralph Worthington and your father were schoolboys
together, and afterward college companions. Only
once did anything come between them, and that was
a young girl, a very young girl, whom both desired,
and whom only one could have.”

Alice was interested now, and forgetting in a measure
her grief, she asked quickly: “Did my father
love some one else than you?”

“I never knew he did,” and a tear rolled
down the faded cheek of the sick woman. “Ralph
Worthington was true as steel, and when he found another
preferred to himself, he generously yielded the contest.”

“Oh, I shall like Mr. Worthington,” Alice
exclaimed, a desire rising in her heart to see the
man who had loved and lost her mother.

“He was, at his own request, groomsman at our
wedding, and the bridesmaid became his wife in little
less than a year.”

“Did he love her?” Alice asked, in some
astonishment, and her mother replied evasively:

“He was kind and affectionate, while she loved
him with all a woman’s devotion. I was
but sixteen when I became a bride, and several years
elapsed ere God blessed me with a child. Your
father was consumptive, and the chances were that
I should early be left a widow. This it was which
led to the agreement made by the two friends that if
either died the living one should care for the widow
and fatherless. To see the two you would not
have guessed that the athletic Ralph would be the first
to go, yet so it was. He died ere you were born.”

“Then he is dead? Oh, I’m so sorry,”
Alice exclaimed.

“Yes, he’s dead; and, as far as possible,
your father fulfilled his promise to the widow and
her child—­a little boy, five years old,
of whom Mrs. Worthington herself was appointed guardian.
I never knew what spirit of evil possessed Eliza,
but in less than a year after her husband’s
death, she made a second and most unfortunate marriage.
Mr. Murdoch proved a greater scoundrel than we supposed,
and when their little girl was nearly two years old,
we heard of a divorce. Mr. Johnson’s health
was failing fast, and we were about to make the tour
of Europe. Just before we sailed we visited poor
Eliza, whom we found heartbroken, for the brutal wretch
had managed to steal her daughter, and carried it
no one knew whither. I never shall forgot the

Page 42

distress of the brother. Clasping my dress, he
sobbed: ’Oh, lady, please bring back my
baby sister, or Hugh will surely die.’ I’ve
often thought of him since, and wondered what he had
grown to be. We comforted Eliza as best we could,
and left money to be used for her in case she needed
it. Then we embarked with you and Densie for
Europe. You know how long we stayed there, how
for a while, your father seemed to regain his strength,
how he at last grew worse and hastened home to die.
In the sorrow and excitement which followed, it is
not strange that Eliza was for a time forgotten, and
when I remembered and inquired for her again, I heard
that Hugh had been adopted by some relation in Kentucky,
that the stolen child had been mysteriously returned,
and was living with its mother in Elmwood.

“At first Eliza appeared a little cool, but
this soon wore off. She did not talk much of
Hugh. Neither did she say much of Adaline, who
was then away at school. Still my visit was a
sadly satisfactory one, as we recalled old times when
we were girls together, weeping over our great loss
when our husbands were laid to rest. Then we spoke
of their friendship, and lastly of the contract.

“‘It sounds preposterous, in me, I know,’
Mrs. Worthington said, when we parted, ’you
are so rich, and I so poor, but if ever your Alice
should want a mother’s care, I will gladly give
it to her.’

“This was nearly eight years ago. In my
anxiety about you, I failed to write her for a long,
long time, while she was long in answering, and then
the correspondence ceased till just before her removal
to Kentucky, when she apprised me of the change.
You have now the history of Mrs. Worthington, the
only person who comes to mind as one to whose care
I can intrust you.”

“But, mother, I may not be wanted there,”
and Alice’s lip quivered painfully.

“You will not go empty-handed, nor be a burden
to them. They are poor, and money will not come
amiss. I said that Mr. Liston would attend to
all pecuniary matters, paying your allowance quarterly;
and I am sure you will not object when I tell you
that I think it right to leave Adaline the sum of
one thousand dollars. It will not materially lessen
your inheritance, and it will do her a world of good.
Mr. Liston will arrange it for you. You will
remain here until you hear from Mrs. Worthington,
and then abide by her arrangements. Will you go,
my daughter—­go cheerfully and do as I desire?”

“Yes, mother, I’ll go,” came gaspingly
from Alice’s lips. “I’ll go;
but, mother, oh, mother,” and Alice’s
cry ended as it always did, “you will not, you
must not die!”

Page 43

But neither tears, nor prayers could avail to keep
the mother longer. Her work on earth was done,
and after this conversation with her daughter, she
grew worse so rapidly that hope died out of Alice’s
heart, and she knew that soon she would be motherless.
There were days and nights of pain and delirium in
which the sick woman recognized none of those around
her save Alice, whom she continually blessed as her
darling, praying that God, too, would bless and keep
His covenant child. At last there came a change,
and one lovely Sabbath morning, ere the bell from
St. Paul’s tower sent forth its summons to the
house of God, there rang from its belfry a solemn
toll, and the villagers listening to it, said, as
they counted forty-four, that Mrs. Johnson was dead.

CHAPTER VIII

MR. LISTON AND THE DOCTOR

Among Snowdon’s poor that day, as well as among
the wealthier class, there was many an aching heart,
and many a prayer was breathed for the stricken Alice,
not less beloved than the mother had been. At
Terrace Hill mansion too, much sorrow was expressed.
On the whole it was very unfortunate that Mrs. Johnson
should have died so unexpectedly, and they did wish
John was there to comfort the young girl who, they
heard, refused to see any one except the clergyman
and Mr. Liston.

“Suppose we telegraph for John,” Eudora
said, and in less than two hours thereafter, Dr. Richards
in New York read that Alice was an orphan.

There was a pang as he thought of her distress, a
wish that he were with her, and then in his selfish
heart the thought arose, “What if she does not
prove as wealthy as I have supposed? Will that
make any difference?”

“I must do something,” he soliloquized,
“or how can I ever pay those debts in New York,
of which mother knows nothing? I wish that widow—­”

He did not finish his wishes, for a turn in the path
brought him suddenly face to face with Mr. Liston,
whom he had seen at a distance, and whom he recognized
at once.

“I’ll quiz the old codger,” he thought.
“He don’t, of course, know me, and will
never suspect my object.”

Mistaken, doctor! The old codger was fully prepared.
He did know Dr. Richards by sight, and was rather
glad than otherwise when the elegant dandy, taking
a seat upon the gnarled roots of the tree under which
he was sitting, made some trivial remark about the
weather, which was very propitious for the crowd who
were sure to attend Mrs. Johnson’s funeral.

Yes, Mr. Liston presumed there would be a crowd.
It was very natural there should be, particularly
as the deceased was greatly beloved and was also reputed
wealthy, “It beats all what a difference it makes,
even after death, whether one is supposed to be rich
or poor,” and the codger worked away industriously
at the pine stick he was whittling.

“But in this case the supposition of riches
must be correct, though I know people are oftener
overvalued than otherwise,” and with his gold-headed
cane the doctor thrust at a dandelion growing near.

Page 44

“Nothing truer than that,” returned the
whittler, brushing the litter from his lap. “Now
I’ve no doubt that prig of a doctor, who they
say is shining up to Alice, will be disappointed when
he finds just how much she’s worth. Let
me see. What is his name? Lives up there,”
and with his jackknife Mr. Liston pointed toward Terrace
Hill.

“The Richards family live there, sir. You
mean their son, I presume.”

“Ted, the chap that has traveled and come home
so changed. They do say he’s actually taken
to visiting all the rheumatic old women in town, applying
sticking-plasters to their backs and administering
squills to their children, all free gratis.”

Poor doctor! How he fidgeted, moving so often
that his tormentor demurely asked him if he were sitting
on a thistle or what!

“Does Miss Johnson remain here?” the doctor
asked at last, and Mr. Liston replied by telling what
he knew of the arrangements.

At the mention of Worthington the doctor looked up
quickly. Whom had he known by that name, or where
had he heard it before? “Mrs. Worthington,
Mrs. Worthington,” he repeated, unpleasant memories
of something, he knew not what, rising to his mind.
“Is he living in this vicinity?”

“In Elmwood. It’s a widow and her
daughter,” Mr. Liston answered, wisely resolving
to say nothing of a young man, lest the doctor should
feel anxious.

“A widow and her daughter! I must be mistaken
in thinking I ever knew any one by that name, though
it seems strangely familiar,” said the doctor,
and as by this time he had heard all he wished to hear,
he arose, and bidding Mr. Liston good-morning walked
away in no enviable frame of mind.

Looking at his watch the doctor found that it lacked
several hours yet ere the express from Boston was
due. But this did not discourage him. He
would stay in the fields or anywhere, and turning backward
he followed the course of the river winding under
the hill until he reached the friendly woods which
shielded him from observation. How he hated himself
hiding there among the trees, and how he longed for
the downward train, which came at last, and when the
village bell tolled out its summons to the house of
mourning, he sat in a corner of the car returning to
New York even faster than he had come.

Gradually the Riverside cottage filled with people
assembling to pay the last tribute of respect to the
deceased, who during her short stay among them had
endeared herself to many hearts.

Slowly, sadly, they bore her to the grave. Reverently
they laid her down to rest, and from the carriage
window Alice’s white face looked wistfully out
as “earth to earth, ashes to ashes,” broke
the solemn stillness. Oh, how she longed to lay
there, too, beside her mother! How the sunshine,
flecking the bright June grass with gleams of gold,
seemed to mock her misery as the gravelly earth rattled
heavily down upon the coffin lid, and she knew they

Page 45

were covering up her mother. “If I, too,
could die!” she murmured, sinking back in the
carriage corner and covering her face with her veil.
But not so easily could life be shaken off by her,
the young and strong. She must live yet longer.
She had a work to do—­a work whose import
she knew not; and the mother’s death, for which
she then could see no reason, though she knew well
that one existed, was the entrance to that work.
She must live and she must listen while Mr. Liston
talked to her that night on business, arranging about
the letter, which was forwarded immediately to Kentucky,
and advising her what to do until an answer was received,
when he would come up again and do whatever was necessary.

CHAPTER IX

MATTERS IN KENTUCKY

Backward now with our reader we turn, and take up
the broken thread of our story at the point where
we left Adah Hastings.

It was a bitter morning in which to face the fierce
north wind, and plow one’s way to the Derby
cornfield, where, in a small, dilapidated building,
Aunt Eunice Reynolds, widowed sister of John Stanley,
had lived for many years, first as a pensioner upon
her brother’s bounty, and next as Hugh’s
incumbent. At the time of her brother’s
death Aunt Eunice had intended removing to Spring
Bank, but when Hugh’s mother wrote, asking for
a home, she at once abandoned the plan, and for two
seasons more lived alone, watching from her lonely
door the tasseled corn ripening in the August sun.
Of all places in the world Hugh liked the cottage
best, particularly in summer. Few would object
to it then with its garden of gayly colored flowers,
its barricades of tasseled corn and the bubbling music
of the brook, gushing from the willow spring a few
rods from the door. But in the winter people from
the highway, as they caught from across the field
the gleam of Aunt Eunice’s light, pitied the
lonely woman sitting there so solitary beside her wintry
fire. But Aunt Eunice asked no pity. If Hugh
came once a week to spend the night, and once a day
to see her, it was all that she desired, for Hugh
was her darling, her idol, the object which kept her
old heart warm and young with human love. For
him she would endure any want or encounter any difficulty,
and so it is not strange that in his dilemma regarding
Adah Hastings, he intuitively turned to her, as the
one of all others who would lend a helping hand.
He had not been to see her in two whole days, and
when the gray December morning broke, and he looked
out upon the deep, untrodden snow, and then glanced
across the fields to where a wreath of smoke, even
at that early hour, was rising slowly from her chimney,
he frowned impatiently, as he thought how bad the path
must be between Spring Bank and the cornfield, whither
he intended going, as he would be the first to tell
what had occurred. ’Lina’s fierce
opposition to and his mother’s apparent shrinking
from Adah had convinced him how hopeless was the idea
that she could stay at Spring Bank with any degree
of comfort to herself or quiet to him. Aunt Eunice’s
house was the only refuge for Adah, and there she would
be comparatively safe from censorious remarks.

Page 46

“Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these
ye did it unto Me,” kept ringing in Hugh’s
ears, as he hastily dressed himself, striking his
benumbed fingers together, and trying hard to keep
his teeth from chattering, for Hugh was beginning
his work of economy, and when at daylight Claib came
as usual to build his master’s fire, he had sent
him back, saying he did not need one, and bidding
him go, instead, to Mrs. Hastings’ chamber.

“Make a hot one there,” he said.
“Pile the coals on high, so as to heat up quick.”

As Hugh passed through the hall on his way downstairs,
he could not refrain from pausing a moment at the
door of Adah’s room. The fire was burning,
he knew, for he heard the kindling coals sputtering
in the flames, and that was all he heard. He
would look in an instant, he said, to see if all were
well, and carefully turning the knob he entered the
chamber where the desolate Adah lay sleeping, her glossy
brown hair falling like a veil about her sweet pale
face, on which the tear stains still were visible.

As she lay with the firelight falling full upon her
forehead, Hugh, too, caught sight of the mark which
had attracted ’Lina’s curiosity, and starting
forward, bent down for a nearer view.

“Strange that she should have that mark.
Oh Heaven!” and Hugh staggered against the bedpost
as a sudden thought flashed upon him. “Was
that polished villain who had led him into sin anything
to Adaline, anything to his mother? Poor girl,
I am sorry if you, too, have been contaminated, however
slight the contamination may be,” he said, softly,
glancing again at Adah, about whose lips a faint smile
was playing, and who, as he looked, murmured faintly:

“Kiss me, George, just as you used to do.”

“Rascally villain!” Hugh muttered, clinching
his fist involuntarily. “You don’t
deserve that such as she should dream of you.
I’d kiss her myself if I was used to the business,
but I should only make a bungle, as I do with everything,
and might kiss you, little shaver,” and Hugh
bent over Willie.

There was something in Hugh which won his confidence
at once, and stretching-out his dimpled arms, he expressed
his willingness to be taken up. Hugh could not
resist Willie’s appeal, and lifting him gently
in his arms, he bore him off in triumph, the little
fellow patting his cheek, and rubbing his own against
it.

“I don’t know what I’ll do with
you, my little man,” he said, as he reached
the lower hall; then suddenly turning in the direction
of his mother’s room, he walked deliberately
to the bedside, and ere the half-awakened ’Lina
was aware of his intention, deposited his burden between
her and his mother.

“Here, Ad, here’s something that will
raise you quicker than yeast,” he said, beating
a hasty retreat, while the indignant young lady verified
his words by leaping half-way across the floor, her
angry tones mingling with Willie’s crowing laugh,
as the child took the whole for fun, meant expressly
for his benefit.

Page 47

Hugh knew that Willie was safe with his mother, and
hurried out to the kitchen, where only a few of his
negroes were yet stirring.

“Ho, Claib!” he called, “saddle
Rocket quick and bring him to the door. I’m
going to the cornfield.”

“Do as I bid you,” was Hugh’s reply,
and indolent Claib went shivering to the stable where
Hugh’s best horses were kept.

A whinnying sound of welcome greeted him as he entered,
but was soon succeeded by a spirited snort as he attempted
to lead out a most beautiful dapple gray, Hugh’s
favorite steed, his pet of pets, and the horse most
admired and coveted in all the country.

“What is it?” Hugh asked, coming out upon
the stoop, and comprehending the trouble at a glance.
“Rocket, Rocket,” he cried, “easy,
my boy,” and in an instant Rocket’s defiant
attitude changed to one of perfect obedience.

“There, my beauty,” he said, as the animal
continued to prance around him, now snuffing at the
snow, which he evidently did not fancy, and then pawing
at it with his forefeet. “There, my beauty,
you’ve showed off enough. Come, now, I’ve
work for you to do.”

Docile as a lamb when Hugh commanded, he stood quietly
while Claib equipped him for his morning’s task.

“Tell mother I shan’t be back to breakfast,”
Hugh said, as he sprang into the saddle, and giving
loose rein to Rocket went galloping through the snow.

Under ordinary circumstances that early ride would
have been vastly exhilarating to Hugh, who enjoyed
the bracing air, but there was too much now upon his
mind to admit of his enjoying anything. Thoughts
of Adah, and the increased expense her presence would
necessarily bring, flitted across his mind, while
Barney’s bill, put over once, and due again
ere long, sat like a nightmare on him, for he saw no
way in which to meet it. No way save one, and
Rocket surely must have felt the throbbing of Hugh’s
heart as that one way flashed upon him, for he gave
a kind of coaxing whine, and dashed on over the billowy
drifts faster than before.

“No, Rocket, no,” and Hugh patted his
glossy neck. He’d never part with Rocket,
never. He’d sell Spring Bank first with
all its incumbrances.

It was now three days since Hugh had gladdened Aunt
Eunice’s cottage with the sunshine of his presence,
and when she awoke that morning, and saw how high
the snow was piled around her door, she said to herself,
“The boy’ll be here directly to know if
I’m alive,” and this accounted for the
round deal table drawn so cozily before the blazing
fire, and looking so inviting with its two plates
and cups, one a fancy china affair, sacredly kept
for Hugh, whose coffee always tasted better when sipped
from its gilded side, the lightest of egg bread was
steaming on the hearth, the tenderest of steak was
broiling on the griddle, while the odor of the coffee
boiling on the coals came tantalizingly to Hugh’s
olfactories as Aunt Eunice opened the door, saying
pleasantly:

Page 48

“I told ’em so. I felt it in my bones,
and the breakfast is all but ready. Put Rocket
up directly, and come in to the fire.”

Fastening Rocket in his accustomed place in the outer
shed, Hugh stamped the snow from his heavy boots,
and then went in to Aunt Eunice’s cheerful kitchen-parlor,
as she called it, where the tempting breakfast stood
upon the table.

“No coffee! What new freak is that?”
and Aunt Eunice gazed at him in astonishment as he
declined the cup she had prepared with so much care,
dropping in the whitest lumps of sugar, and stirring
in the thickest cream.

It cost Hugh a terrible struggle to refuse that cup
of coffee, but if he would retrench, he must begin
at once, and determining to meet it unflinchingly
he replied that “he had concluded to drink water
for a while, and see what that would do; much was
said nowadays about coffee being injurious, and he
presumed it was.”

“There’s something on your mind,”
she said, observing his abstraction. “Have
you had another dunning letter, or what?”

Aunt Eunice had made a commencement, and in his usual
impulsive way Hugh began by asking if “she ever
knew him tell a lie?”

“Do they think me very bad?” and Hugh
spoke so mournfully that Aunt Eunice tried to apologize.

“She didn’t mean anything, only folks
sometimes said he was cross and rough, and—­and—­”

“Stingy,” he suggested, supplying the
word she hated to say.

Yes, that was what Ellen Tiffton said, because he
refused to go to the Ladies’ Fair, where he
was sure to have his pockets picked. But, law,
she wasn’t worth minding, if she was Colonel
Tiffton’s girl, and going to have a big party
one week from the next Monday. Had Hugh heard
of it?

Hugh believed Ad said something about it yesterday,
but he paid no attention, for, of course, he should
not go even if he were invited, as he had nothing
fit to wear.

“But why did you ask if I ever knew you tell
a lie?” Aunt Eunice said, and then in a low
tone, as if afraid the walls might hear, Hugh told
the whole story of Adah.

“’Twas a mighty mean trick, I know,”
he said, as he saw Aunt Eunice’s look of horror
when he confessed the part he had had in wronging the
poor girl, “but, Aunt Eunice, that villain coaxed
me into drinking wine, which you know I never use,
and I think now he must have drugged it, for I remember
a strange feeling in my head, a feeling not like drunkenness,
for I knew perfectly well what was transpiring around
me, and only felt a don’t-care-a-tive-ness which
kept me silent when I should have spoken. She
has come to me at last. She believes God sent
her, and if He did He’ll help me take care of
her. I shall not turn her off.”

Page 49

“I have thought twice, the last time just as
I did the first. Adah shall stay, and I want
you to take her. You need some one these winter
nights. There’s the room you call mine.
Give her that. Will you, Aunt Eunice?”
and Hugh wound his arm around Aunt Eunice’s ample
waist, while he pleaded for Adah Hastings.

Aunt Eunice was soon won over, as Hugh knew she would
be, and it was settled that she should come that very
day, if possible.

“Look, the sky is clearing,” and he pointed
to the sunshine streaming through the window.

“We’ll have her room fixed before I go,”
and with his own hands Hugh split and prepared the
wood which was to kindle Adah’s fire, then with
Aunt Eunice’s help sundry changes were made in
the arrangement of the rather meager furniture, which
never seemed so meager to Hugh as when he looked at
it with Adah’s eyes and wondered how she’d
like it.

“Oh, I wish I were rich,” he sighed mentally,
and taking out his well-worn purse he carefully counted
its contents.

Aunt Eunice, who had stepped out for a moment, reappeared,
bringing a counterpane and towel, one of which was
spread upon the bed, while the other covered the old
pine stand, marred and stained with ink and tallow,
the result of Hugh’s own carelessness.

“What a heap of difference that table cloth
and pocket handkerchief do make,” was Hugh’s
man-like remark, his face brightening with the improved
appearance of things, and his big heart grew warm with
the thought that he might keep his twenty-five dollars
and Adah be comfortable still.

“Ad may pick Adah’s eyes out before I
get home,” was his laughing remark as he vaulted
into his saddle and dashed off across the fields, where,
beneath the warm Kentucky sun, the snow was already
beginning to soften.

Breakfast had been rather late at Spring Bank that
morning, for the strangers had required some care,
and Miss ’Lina was sipping her coffee rather
ill-naturedly when a note was handed her, and instantly
her mood was changed.

“Splendid, mother!” she exclaimed, glancing
at the tiny, three-cornered thing; “an invitation
to Ellen Tiffton’s party. I was half afraid
she would leave me out after Hugh’s refusal
to attend the Ladies’ Fair, or buy a ticket
for her lottery. It was only ten dollars either,
and Mr. Harney spent all of forty, I’m sure,
in the course of the evening. I think Harney
is splendid.”

“Hugh had no ten dollars to spare,” Mrs.
Worthington said, apologetically, “though, of
course, he might have been more civil than to tell
Ellen it was a regular swindle, and the getters-up
ought to be indicted. I almost wonder at her
inviting him, as she said she’d never speak
to him again.”

“Invited him! Who said she had? It’s
only one card for me,” and with a most satisfied
expression ’Lina presented the rote to her mother,
whose pale face flushed at the insult thus offered
her son—­an insult which even ’Lina
felt, but would not acknowledge, lest it should interfere
with her going.

Page 50

“Indeed I shan’t,” the young lady
retorted. “I hardly think it fair in Ellen,
but I shall accept, of course, and I must go to town
to-day to see about having my pink silk fixed.
I think I’ll have some black lace festooned
around the skirt. How I wish I could have a new
one. Do you suppose Hugh has any money?”

“None for new dresses or lace flounces, either,”
Mrs. Worthington replied, “I fancy he begins
to look old and worn with this perpetual call for
money from us. We must economize.”

“Never mind, when I get Bob Harney I’ll
pay off old scores,” ’Lina said, laughingly,
as she arose from the table, and went to look over
her wardrobe.

Meanwhile Hugh had returned, meeting in the kitchen
with Lulu.

“Well, Lu, what is it? What’s happened?”
Hugh asked, as he saw she was full of some important
matter.

In an instant the impetuous Lulu told him of the party
to which he was not invited, together with the reason
why, and the word she had sent back.

“I’ll give ’em a piece of my mind!”
she said, as she saw Hugh change color. “She
may have old Harney. His man John told Claib how
his a master said he meant to get me and Rocket, too,
some day; me for her waiting maid, I reckon.
You won’t sell me, Master High, will you?”
and Lulu’s soft black eyes looked pleadingly
up to Hugh.

“Never!” and Hugh’s riding whip
came down upon the table with a force which made Lulu
start.

Satisfied that she was safe from Ellen Tiffton’s
whims, Lulu darted away, singing as she went, while
Hugh entered the sitting-room, where ’Lina sat,
surrounded by her party finery, and prepared to do
the amiable to the utmost.

“That really is a handsome little boy upstairs,”
she said, as if she supposed it were her mother who
came in; then with an affected start she added, “Oh,
it’s you! I thought ’twas mother.
Don’t you think, Ellen has not invited you.
Mean, isn’t it?”

“Ellen can do as she likes,” Hugh replied,
adding, as he guessed the meaning of all that finery,
“you surely are not going?”

“Why not?” and ’Lina’s black
eyes flashed full upon him.

“I thought perhaps you would decline for my
sake,” he replied.

An angry retort trembled on ’Lina’s lip,
but she had an object to attain, so she restrained
herself and answered that “she had thought of
it, but such a course would do no good, and she wanted
to go so much, the Tifftons were so exclusive and
aristocratic.”

Hugh whistled a little contemptuously, but ’Lina
kept her temper, and continued, coaxingly:

“Everybody is to be there, and after what has
been said about—­about—­your being
rather—­close, you’d like to have your
sister look decent, I know; and really, Hugh, I can’t
unless you give me a little money. Do, Hugh,
be good for once.”

“Ad, I can’t,” and Hugh spoke sorrowfully,
for a kind word from ’Lina always touched his
weaker side. “I would if I could, but honestly
I’ve only twenty-five dollars in the world,
and I’ve thought of a new coat. I don’t
like to look so shabby. It hurts me worse than
it does you,” and Hugh’s voice trembled
as he spoke.

Page 51

Any but a heart of stone would have yielded at once,
but ’Lina was too supremely selfish. Hugh
had twenty-five dollars. He might give her half,
or even ten. She’d be satisfied with ten.
He could soon make that up. The negro hire came
due ere long. He must have forgotten that.

No, he had not; but with the negro hire came debts,
thoughts of which gave him the old worn look his mother
had observed. Only ten dollars! It did seem
hard to refuse, and if ’Lina went Hugh wished
her to look well, for underneath his apparent harshness
lurked a kind of pride in his dark sister, whose beauty
was of the bold, dashing style.

“Take them,” he said at last, counting
out the ten with a half-regretful sigh. “Make
them go as far as you can, and, Ad, remember, don’t
get into debt.”

“I won’t,” and with a civil “Thank
you,” ’Lina rolled up her bills, while
Hugh sought his mother, and sitting down beside her
said, abruptly:

“Mother, are you sure that man is dead?—­Ad’s
father I mean?”

There was a nervous start, a sudden paling of Mrs.
Worthington’s cheek, and then she answered,
sadly:

“I suppose so, of course. I received a
paper containing a marked announcement of his death,
giving accurately his name and age. There could
be no mistake. Why do you ask that question?”

“Nothing, only I’ve been thinking of him
this morning. There’s a mark on Adah’s
temple similar to Ad’s, only not so plain, and
I did not know but she might possibly be related.
Have you noticed it?”

“’Lina pointed it out last night, but
to me it seemed a spreading vein, nothing more.
Hugh!” and Mrs. Worthington grasped his arm with
a vehemence unusual to her accustomed quiet manner,
“you seem to know Adah’s later history.
Do you know her earlier? Who is she? Where
did she come from?”

“I’m going to her now; will you come,
too?” she said, and accordingly both together
ascended to the chamber where Adah sat before the fire
with Willie on her lap, her glossy hair, which Lulu’s
skillful fingers had arranged, combed smoothly down
upon her forehead, so as to hide the mysterious mark,
if mark there were, on that fair skin.

Something in the expression of her face as she turned
toward Mrs. Worthington made that lady start, while
her heart throbbed with an indefinable emotion.
Who was Adah Hastings, and why was she so drawn toward
her?

Addressing to her some indifferent remark, she gradually
led the conversation backward to the subject of her
early home, asking again what she could remember,
but Adah was scarcely more satisfactory than on the
previous night. Memories she had of a gentle lady,
who must have been her mother, of a lad who called
her sister, and kissed her sometimes, of a cottage
with grass and flowers, and bees buzzing beneath the
trees.

“Are you faint?” Hugh asked, quickly,
as his mother turned white as ashes, and leaned against
the mantel.

Page 52

She did not seem to hear him, but continued questioning
Adah.

“Did you say bees? Were there many?”

“Oh, yes, so many, I remember, because they
stung me once,” and Adah gazed dreamily into
the fire, as if listening again to the musical hum
heard in that New England home, wherever it might have
been.

“Go on, what more can you recall?” Mrs.
Worthington said, and Adah replied:

“Nothing but the waterfall in the river.
I remember that near our door.”

During this conversation, Hugh had been standing by
the table, where lay a few articles which he supposed
belonged to Adah. One of these was a small double
locket, attached to a slender chain.

“The rascal’s, I presume,” he said
to himself, and taking it in his hand, he touched
the spring, starting quickly as the features of a
young-girl met his view. How radiantly beautiful
the original of that picture must have been, and Hugh
gazed long and earnestly upon the sweet young face,
and its soft, silken curls, some shading the open brow,
and others falling low upon the uncovered neck.
Adah, lifting up her head, saw what he was doing,
and said:

“Don’t you think her beautiful?”

“Who is she?” Hugh asked, coming to her
side, and passing her the locket.

“I don’t know,” Adah replied.
“She came to me one day when Willie was only
two weeks old and my heart was so heavy with pain.
She had heard I did plain sewing and wanted some for
herself. She seemed to me like an angel, and
I’ve sometimes thought she was, for she never
came again. In stooping over me the chain must
have been unclasped. I tried to find her when
I got well, but my efforts were all in vain, and so
I’ve kept it ever since. It was not stealing,
was it?”

“Of course not,” Hugh said, while Adah,
opening the other side, showed him a lock of dark
brown hair, tied with a tiny ribbon, in which was
written, “In memoriam, Aug. 18.”

As Hugh read the date his heart gave one great throb,
for that was the summer, that the month when he lost
the Golden Haired. Something, too, reminded him
of the warm moonlight night, when the little snowy
fingers, over which the fierce waters were soon to
beat, had strayed through his heavy locks, which the
girl had said were too long to be becoming, playfully
severing them at random, and saying “she means
to keep the fleece to fill a cushion with.”

“I wonder whose it is?” Adah said; “I’ve
thought it might have been her mother’s.”

“Her lover’s more likely,” suggested
Hugh, glancing once more at the picture, which certainly
had in it a resemblance to the Golden Haired, save
that the curls were darker, and the eyes a deeper blue.

“Will mas’r have de carriage? He
say something ’bout it,” Caesar said,
just then thrusting his woolly head in at the door,
and thus reminding Hugh that Adah had yet to hear
of Aunt Eunice and his plan of taking her thither.

Page 53

With a burst of tears, Adah listened to him, and then
insisted upon going away, as she had done the previous
night. She had no claim on him, and she could
not be a burden.

“I do not, I am willing you should remain until
your friends are found.”

Adah offered no further remonstrance, but turning
to Hugh, said, hesitatingly:

“I may hear from my advertisement. Do you
take the Herald?”

“Yes, though I can’t say I think much
of it,” Hugh replied, and Adah continued:

“Then if you ever find anything for me, you’ll
tell me, and I can go away. I said, ‘Direct
to Adah Hastings.’ Somebody will be sure
to see it. Maybe George, and then he’ll
know of Willie,” and the white face brightened
with eager anticipation as Adah thought of George reading
that advertisement, a part of which had lighted Dr.
Richards’ cigar.

With a muttered invective against the “villain,”
Hugh left the room to see that the carriage was ready,
while his mother, following him into the hall, offered
to go herself with Adah if he liked. Glad to be
relieved, as he had business that afternoon in Versailles,
and was anxious to set off as soon as possible, Hugh
accepted at once, and half an hour later, the Spring
Bank carriage drove slowly from the door, ’Lina
calling after her mother to send Caesar back immediately.

CHAPTER X

’Lina’spurchaseandHugh’s

There were piles of handsome dress goods upon the
counter at Harney’s that afternoon, and Harney
was anxious to sell. It was not always that he
favored a customer with his own personal services,
and ’Lina felt proportionably flattered when
he came forward and asked what he could show her.
Of course, a dress for the party—­he had
sold at least a dozen that day, but fortunately he
still had the most elegant pattern of all, and he
knew it would exactly suit her complexion and style.

Deluded ’Lina! Richard Harney, the wealthy
bachelor merchant, did not mean one word he said.
He had tried to sell that dress a dozen times, and
been as often refused, no one caring just then to pay
fifty dollars for a dress which could only be worn
on great occasions. But ’Lina was easily
flattered, while the silk was beautiful. But ten
dollars was all she had, and turning away from the
tempting silk she answered faintly, that “it
was superb, but she could not afford it, besides, she
had not the money to-day.”

“Not the slightest consequence,” was Harney’s
quick rejoinder. “Not the slightest consequence.
Your brother’s credit is good—­none
better in the country, and I’m sure he’ll
be proud to see you in it. I should, were I your
brother.”

’Lina blushed, while the wish to possess the
silk grew every moment stronger.

Page 54

“If it were only fifty dollars, it would not
seem so bad,” she thought. Hugh could manage
it some way, and Mr. Harney was so good natured; he
could wait a year, she knew. But the making would
cost ten dollars more, for that was the price Miss
Allis charged, to say nothing of the trimmings.
“No, I can’t,” she said, quite decidedly,
at last, asking for the lace with which she at first
intended renovating her old pink silk, “She
must see Miss Allis first to know how much she wanted,”
and promising to return, she tripped over to Frankfort’s
fashionable dressmaker, whom she found surrounded
with dresses for the party.

As some time would elapse ere Miss Allis could attend
to her, she went back to Harney’s just for one
more look at the lovely fabric. It was, if possible,
more beautiful than before, and Harney was more polite,
while the result of the whole was that, when ’Lina
at four o’clock that afternoon entered her carriage
to go home, the despised pink silk, still unpaid on
Haney’s books, was thrown down anywhere, while
in her hands she carefully held the bundle Harney
brought himself, complimenting her upon the sensation
she was sure to create, and inviting her to dance the
first set with him. Then with a smiling bow he
closed the door upon her, and returning to his books
wrote down Hugh Worthington his debtor to fifty dollars
more.

“That makes three hundred and fifty,”
he said to himself. “I know he can’t
raise that amount of ready money, and as he is too
infernal proud to be sued, I’m sure of Rocket
or Lulu, it matters but little which,” and with
a look upon his face which made it positively hideous,
the scheming Harney closed his books, and sat down
to calculate the best means of managing the rather
unmanageable Hugh!

It was dark when ’Lina reached home, but the
silk looked well by firelight, better even than in
the light of day, and ’Lina would have been
quite happy but for her mother’s reproaches and
an occasional twinge as she wondered what Hugh would
say. He had not yet returned, and numerous were
Mrs. Worthington’s surmises as to what was keeping
him so late. A glance backward for an hour or
so will let us into the secret.

It was the day when a number of negroes were to be
sold in the courthouse. There was no trouble
in disposing of them all, save one, a white-haired
old man, whom they called Uncle Sam.

With tottering steps the old man took his place, while
his dim eyes wandered wistfully over the faces around
him congregated, as if seeking for their owner.
But none was found who cared for Uncle Sam.

“Won’t nobody bid for Sam? I fetched
a thousan’ dollars onct,” and the feeble
voice trembled as it asked this question.

“What will become of him if he is not sold?”
Hugh asked of a bystander, who replied, “Go
back to the old place to be kicked and cuffed by the
minions of the new proprietor, Harney. You know
Harney, of Frankfort?”

Page 55

Yes, Hugh did know Harney as one who was constantly
adding to his already large possessions houses and
lands and negroes without limit, caring little that
they came to him laden with the widow’s curse
and the orphan’s tears. This was Harney,
and Hugh always felt exasperated whenever he thought
of him. Advancing a step or two he came nearer
to the negro, who took comfort at once from the expression
of his face, and stretching out his shaking hand he
said, beseechingly:

“You, mas’r, you buy old Sam, ’case
it ’ill be lonesome and cold in de cabin at
home when they all is gone. Please, mas’r.”

“What can you do?” was Hugh’s query,
to which the truthful negro answered:

“Nothin’ much, ‘cept to set in the
chimbly corner eatin’ corn bread and bacon—­or,
yes,” and an expression of reverence and awe
stole over the wrinkled face, as in a low tone he
added, “I can pray for young mas’r, and
I will, only buy me, please.”

Hugh had not much faith in praying negroes, but something
in old Sam struck him as sincere. His prayers
might do good, and be needed somebody’s, sadly.
But what should he offer, when fifteen dollars was
all he had in the world, and was it his duty to encumber
himself with a piece of useless property? Visions
of the Golden Haired and Adah both arose up before
him. They would say it was right. They would
tell him to buy old Sam, and that settled the point
with him.

“Five dollars,” he called out, and Sam’s
“God bless you,” was sounding in his ears,
when a voice from another part of the building doubled
the bid, and with a moan Uncle Sam turned imploringly
toward Hugh.

“Thirteen,” came again from the corner,
and Hugh caught sight of the bidder, a sour-grained
fellow, whose wife had ten young children, and so
could find use for Sam.

“Thirteen and a half,” cried Hugh.

“Fourteen,” responded his opponent.

“Leetle more, mas’r, berry leetle,”
whispered Uncle Sam.

“Fourteen and a quarter,” said Hugh, the
perspiration starting out about his lips, as he thought
how fast his pile was diminishing, and that he could
not go beyond it.

“Fourteen and a half,” from the corner.

“Leetle more, mas’r,” from Uncle
Sam.

“Fourteen, seventy-five,” from Hugh.

“Fifteen,” from the man in the corner,
and Hugh groaned aloud.

“That’s every dime I’ve got.”

Quick as thought an acquaintance beside him slipped
a bill into his hand, whispering as he did so:

“It’s a V. I’ll double it if necessary.
I’m sorry for the darky.”

It was very exciting now, each bidder raising a quarter
each time, while Sam’s “a leetle more,
mas’r,” and the vociferous cheers of the
crowd, whenever Hugh’s voice was heard, showed
him to be the popular party.

Page 56

“Nineteen, seventy-five,” from the corner,
and Hugh felt his courage giving way as he faintly
called out:

“Twenty.”

Only an instant did the auctioneer wait, and then
his decision, “Gone!” made Hugh the owner
of Uncle Sam, who, crouching down before him, blessed
him with tears and prayers.

“I knows you’re good,” he said;
“I knows it by yer face; and mebby, when the
rheumatics gits out of my ole legs I kin work for mas’r
a heap. Does you live fur from here?”

“Look here, Sam,” and Hugh laughed heartily
at the negro’s forlorn appearance, as, regaining
his feet, he assumed a most deprecating attitude,
asking pardon for tumbling down, and charging it all
to his shaky knees. “Look here, there’s
no other way, except for you to ride, and me to walk.
Rocket won’t carry double,” and ere Sam
could remonstrate, Hugh had dismounted and placed
him in the saddle.

Rocket did not fancy the exchange, as was manifest
by an indignant snort, and an attempt to shake Sam
off, but a word from Hugh quieted him, and the latter
offered the reins to Sam, who was never a skillful
horseman, and felt a mortal terror of the high-mettled
steed beneath him. With a most frightened expression
upon his face, he grasped the saddle pommel with both
hands, and bending nearly double, gasped out:

“Sam ain’t much use’t to gemman’s
horses. Kind of bold me on, mas’r, till
I gits de hang of de critter. He hists me around
mightily.”

So, leading Rocket with one hand, and steadying Sam
with the other, Hugh got on but slowly, and ’Lina
had looked for him many times ere she spied him from
the window as he came up the lawn.

“Who is he, and what did you get him for?”
Mrs. Worthington asked, as Hugh led Sam into the dining-room.

Briefly Hugh explained to her why he had bought the
negro.

“It was foolish, I suppose, but I’m not
sorry yet,” he added, glancing toward the corner
where the poor old man was sitting, warming his shriveled
hands by the cheerful fire, and muttering to himself
blessings on “young mas’r.”

But for the remembrance of her dress, ’Lina
would have stormed, but as it was, she held her peace,
and even asked Sam some trivial question concerning
his former owners. Supper had been delayed for
Hugh, and as he took his seat at the table, he inquired
after Adah.

“Pretty well when I left,” said his mother,
adding that Lulu had been there since, and reported
her as looking pale and worn, while Aunt Eunice seemed
worried with Willie, who was inclined to be fretful.

“They need some one,” Hugh said, refusing
the coffee his mother passed him on the plea that
he did not feel like drinking it to-night. “They
need one of the servants. Can’t you spare
Lulu?”

Mrs. Worthington did not know, but ’Lina, to
whom Lulu was a kind of waiting maid, took the matter
up alone, and said:

“Indeed they couldn’t. There was
no one at Spring Bank more useful, and it was preposterous
for Hugh to think of giving their best servant to
Adah Hastings. Let her take care of her baby herself.
She guessed it wouldn’t hurt her. Anyway,
they couldn’t afford to keep a servant for her.”

Page 57

With a long-drawn sigh, Hugh finished his supper,
and was about lighting his cigar when he felt some
one touching him, and turning around he saw that Sam
had grasped his coat. The negro had heard the
conversation, and drawn correct conclusions.
His new master was not rich. He could not afford
to buy him, and having bought him could not afford
to keep him. There was a sigh in the old man’s
heart, as he thought how useless he was, but when
he heard about the baby, his spirits arose at once.
In all the world there was nothing so precious to
Sam as a child, a little white child, with waxen hands
to pat his old black face, and his work was found.

“Mas’r,” he whispered, “Sam
kin take keer that baby. He knows how, and the
little children in Georgy, whar I comed from, used
to be mighty fond of Sam. I’ll tend to
the young lady, too. Is she yourn, mas’r?”

’Lina laughed aloud, while Hugh replied:

“She’s mine while I take care of her.”

Then, turning to his sister, he asked if she procured
what she wanted.

With a threatening frown at Lulu, who had seen and
gone into ecstasies over the rose silk, ’Lina
answered that she was fortunate enough to get just
what she wanted, adding quickly:

“It’s to be a much gayer affair than I
supposed. They are invited from Louisville, and
even from Cincinnati, so Mr. Harney says.”

“Harney, did you trade there?” Hugh asked.

“Why, yes. It’s the largest and best
store in town. Why shouldn’t I?”
’Lina replied, while Sam, catching at the name,
put in:

“Hartley’s the man what foreclosed the
mortgage. You orto hear ole mas’r cuss
him oncet. Sharp chap, dat Harney; mighty hard
on de blacks, folks say,” and glad to have escaped
from his clutches, Sam turned again to his dozing
reverie, which was broken at last by Hugh’s calling
Claib, and bidding him show Sam where he was to sleep.

How long Hugh did sit up that night, and ’Lina,
who wanted so much to see once more just how her rose
silk looked by lamplight, thought he never would take
her broad hints and leave. He dreaded to go—­dreaded
to exchange that warm, pleasant room for the cold,
cheerless chamber above, where he knew no fire would
greet him, for he had told Claib not to make one,
and that was why he lingered as long below. But
the ordeal must be met, and just as the clock was
striking eleven, he bade his mother and sister good-night,
whistling as he bounded up the stairs, by way of keeping
up his spirits. How dreary and dark it looked
in his room, as with a feeling akin to homesickness
Hugh set his candle down and glanced at the empty
hearth.

Page 58

“After all, what does it matter?” he said.
“I only have to hurry and get in bed the sooner,”
and tossing one boot here and another there, he was
about to finish undressing when suddenly he remembered
the little Bible, and the passage read last night.
Would there be one for him to-night? He meant
to look and see, and all cold and shivery as he was,
Hugh lifted the lid of the trunk which held his treasure,
and taking it out, opened to the place where the silken
curl was lying. There was a great throb at his
heart when he saw that the last coil of the tress lay
just over the words, “Whosoever shall give to
drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold
water in the name of a disciple, verily, I say unto
you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.”

“It does seem as if this was meant to encourage
me,” Hugh said, reading the passage twice.
“I don’t much believe, though, I bought
old Sam in the name of a disciple, though I do think
his telling me he prayed had a little to do with it.
It’s rather pleasant to think there’s two
to pray for me now, Adah and Sam. I wonder if
it makes any difference with God that one prayer is
white and the other black? Golden Hair said it
didn’t when we talked about the negroes,”
and shutting the Bible, Hugh was about to put it up
when something whispered of his resolution to commence
reading it through.

“It’s too confounded cold. I’ll
freeze to death, I tell you,” he said, as if
arguing the point with some unseen presence. “Get
into bed and read it then, hey? It’s growing
late and my candle is most burned out. The first
chapter of Genesis is short, is it? Won’t
take one over three minutes? Stick like a chestnut
burr, don’t you,” and as if the matter
were decided, Hugh sprang into bed, shivering as if
about to take a cold plunge bath. How then was
he disappointed to find the sheets as nice and warm
as Aunt Chloe’s warming pan of red-hot coals
could make them.

And so he fell away to sleep, dreaming that Golden
Hair had come back, and that he held her in his arms,
just as he held the Bible he had unconsciously taken
from the pillow beneath his head.

CHAPTER XI

SAM AND ADAH

It was Saturday night again, and Adah, with heavy
eyes and throbbing head, sat bending over the dazzling
silk, which ’Lina had coaxed her to make.

’Lina could be very gracious when she chose,
and as she saw a way by which Adah might be useful
to her, she chose to be so now, and treated the unsuspecting
girl so kindly, that Adah promised to undertake the
task, which proved a harder one than she had anticipated.
Anxious to gratify ’Lina, and keep what she
was doing a secret from Hugh, who came to the cottage
often, she was obliged to work early and late, bending
over the dress by the dim candlelight until her head
seemed bursting with pain, and rings of fire danced
before her eyes. She never would have succeeded
but for Uncle Sam, who proved a most efficient member
of the household, fitting in every niche and corner,
until Aunt Eunice, with all her New England aversion
to negroes, wondered how she had ever lived without
him. Particularly did he attach himself to Willie,
relieving Adah from all care, and thus enabling her
to devote every spare moment to the party dress.

Page 59

“You’se workin’ yourself to death,”
he said to her, as late on Saturday night she sat
bending to the tallow candle, her hair brushed back
from her forehead and a purplish glow upon her cheek.

“I know I’m working too hard,” she
said. “I’m very tired, but Monday
is the party. Oh, I am so hot and feverish,”
and, as if even the slender chain of gold about her
neck were a burden, she undid the clasp, and laid
upon the stand the locket which had so interested Hugh.

Naturally inquisitive Sam took it in his hand, and
touching the spring held it to the light, uttering
an exclamation of surprise.

“Dat’s de bery one, and no mistake,”
he said, his old withered face lighting up with eager
joy.

“Who is she, Sam?” Adah asked, forgetting
her work in her new interest.

“Miss Ellis. I done forgot de other name.
Ellis they call her way down thar whar Sam was sold,
when dat man with the big splot on his forerd like
that is on your’n steal me away and sell me in
Virginny. Miss, ever hearn tell o’ dat?
We thinks he’s takin’ a bee line for Canada,
when fust we knows we’s in ole Virginny, and
de villain not freein’ us at all. He sell
us. Me he most give away, ’case I was so
old, and the mas’r who buy some like Mas’r
Hugh, he pity, he sorry for ole shaky nigger.
Sam tell him on his knees how he comed from Kaintuck,
but Mas’r Sullivan say he bought ’em far,
and that the right mas’r sell ’em sneakin’
like to save rasin’ a furse, and he show a bill
of sale. They believe him spite of dis chile,
and so Sam ’long to anodder mas’r.”

“Yes; but the lady, Miss Ellis. Where did
you find her?” Adah asked, and Sam replied:

“I’se comin’ to her d’rectly.
Mas’r Fitzhugh live on big plantation—­big
house, too, with plenty company; and one day she comed,
with great trunk, a visitin’ you know.
She’d been to school with Miss Mabel, Mas’r
Fitzhugh’s daughter.”

“Are you sure it’s the same?” Adah
asked.

“Yes, miss, Sam sure, he ’members them
curls—­got a heap of ’em; and that
neck—­oh, wear that neck berry low, so low,
so white, it make even ole Sam feel kinder, kinder,
yes, Sam feel very much that way.”

Adah could not repress a smile, but she was too much
interested to interrupt him, and he went on:

“They all think heap of Miss Ellis, and I hear
de blacks tellin’ how she berry rich, and comed
from way off thar wher white niggers live—­Masser-something.”

“Massachusetts?” suggested Adah.

“Yes; that’s the very mas’r, I ’member
dat.”

“Was Ellis her first or last name?” Adah
asked, and Sam replied:

“It was neider, ’twas her Christian name.
I’se got mizzable memory, and
I disremembers her last name. The folks call
her Ellis, and the blacks
Miss Ellis.”

“A queer name for a first one,” Adah thought,
while Sam continued:

Page 60

“She jest like bright angel, in her white gownds
and dem long curls, and Sam like her so much.
She promise to write to Mas’r Browne and tell
him whar I is. I didn’t cry loud then—­heart
too full. I cry whimperin’ like, and she
cry, too. Then she tell me about God, and Sam
listen, oh, listen so much, for that’s what
he want to hear so long. Miss Nancy, in Kuntuck,
be one of them that reads her pra’rs o’
Sundays, and ole mas’r one that hollers ’em.
Sam liked that way best, seemed like gettin’
along and make de Lord hear, but it don’t show
Sam the way, and when the ministers come in, he listen,
but they that reads and them that hollers only talk
about High and Low—­Jack and the Game, or
something, Sam disremembers so bad; got mizzable memory.
He only knows he not find the way, ’till Miss
Ellis tells him of Jesus, once a man and always God.
It’s very queer, but Sam believe it, and then
she sing, ‘Come unto me.’ You ever
hear it?”

Adah nodded, and Sam went on.

“But you never hear Miss Ellis sing it.
Oh, so fine, the very rafters hold their breff, and
Sam find the way at last.”

“Where is Miss Ellis now?” Adah asked,
and Sam replied:

“Gone to Masser—­what you say once.
She gived me five dollars and then ask what else.
I look at her and say, ’Sam wants a spear or
two of yer shinin’ hair,’ and Miss Mabel
takes shears and cut a little curl. I’se
got ’em now. I never spend the money,”
and from an old leathern wallet Sam drew a bill and
a soft silken curl, which he laid across Adah’s
hand.

“Yes, that is like her hair,” Adah said,
gazing fondly upon the tiny lock which was Sam’s
greatest earthly treasure; then, returning it to him,
she asked: “And where is that Sullivan?”
a chill creeping over her as she remembered how about
four years ago the man she called her guardian was
absent for some time, and came back to her with colored
hair and whiskers.

“Yes, berry much, but more so. Show plainer
when he cussin’ mad, just as yours show more
when you tired. Whar you git dat?” and Sam
bent down to inspect more closely Adah’s birthmark.

“I don’t know. I was born with it,”
and Adah half groaned aloud at the sad memories which
Sam’s story had awakened within her.

She could scarcely doubt that Sullivan, the negro-stealer,
and Monroe, her guardian, were the same, but where
was he now, and why had he treated her so treacherously,
when he had always seemed so kind?

Surely Hugh’s sleep was sweeter that night for
the prayer breathed by the lowly negro, and even the
wild tumult in Adah’s heart was hushed by Sam’s
simple, childlike faith that God would bring all right
at last.

Page 61

Early on Monday afternoon ’Lina, taking advantage
of Hugh’s absence, came over for her dress,
finding much fault, and requiring some of the work
to be done twice ere it suited her. Without a
murmur Adah obeyed, but when the last stitch was taken
and the party dress was gone, her overtaxed frame
gave way, and Sam himself helped her to her bed, where
she lay moaning, with the blinding pain in her head,
which increased so fast that she scarcely saw the
tempting little supper which Aunt Eunice brought,
asking her to eat. Of one thing, however, she
was conscious, and that of the dark form bending over
her pillow and whispering soothingly the passage which
had once brought Heaven to him, “Come unto me,
come unto me, and I will give you rest.”

The night had closed in dark and stormy, and the wintry
rain beat fiercely against the windows; but for this
Sam did not hesitate a moment when at midnight Aunt
Eunice, alarmed at Adah’s rapidly increasing
fever, asked if he could find his way to Spring Bank.

“In course,” he could, and in a few moments
the old, shriveled form was out in the darkness, groping
its way over fences, and through the pitfalls, stumbling
often, and losing his hat past recovery, so that the
snowy hair was dripping wet when at last Spring Bank
was reached and he stood upon the porch.

In much alarm Hugh dressed himself and hastened to
the cottage. But Adah did not know him and only
talked of dresses and parties, and George, whom she
begged to come back and restore her good name.

CHAPTER XII

WHAT FOLLOWED

There was a bright light in the sitting-room, and
through the half-closed shutters Hugh caught glimpses
of a blazing fire. ’Lina had evidently
come home, and half wishing she had stayed a little
longer, Hugh entered the room.

Poor ’Lina! The party had proved a most
unsatisfactory affair. She had not made the sensation
she expected to make. Harney had scarcely noticed
her at all, having neither eyes nor ears for any one
save Ellen Tiffton, who surely must have told that
Hugh was not invited, for, in no other way could ’Lina
account for the remark she overheard touching her want
of heart in failing to resent a brother’s insult.
In the most unenviable of moods, ’Lina left
at a comparatively early hour. She bade Caesar
drive carefully, as it was very dark, and the rain
was almost blinding, so rapidly it fell.

“Ye-es, mis-s, Caes—­he—­done
been to party fore now. Git ’long dar,
Sorrel,” hiccoughed the negro, who, in Colonel
Tiffton’s kitchen had indulged rather too freely
to insure the safety of his mistress.

Still the horses knew the road, and kept it until
they left the main highway and turned into the fields.
Even then they would probably have made their way
in safety, had not their drunken driver persisted in
turning them into a road which led directly through
the deepest part of the creek, swollen now by the
melted snow and the vast amount of rain which had
fallen since the sunsetting. Not knowing they
were wrong, ’Lina did not dream of danger until
she heard Caesar’s cry of “Who’a
dar, Sorrel. Git up, Henry. Dat’s
nothin’ but de creek,” while a violent
lurch of the carriage sent her to the opposite side
from where she had been sitting.

Page 62

A few mad plunges, another wrench, which pitched ’Lina
headlong against the window, and the steep, shelving
bank was reached, but in endeavoring to climb it the
carriage was upset, and ’Lina found herself in
pitchy darkness. Perfectly sobered now, Caesar
extricated her as soon as possible. The carriage
was broken and there was no alternative save for ’Lina
to walk the remaining distance home. It was not
far, for the scene of the disaster was within sight
of Spring Bank, but to ’Lina, bedraggled with
mud and wet to the skin, it seemed an interminable
distance, and her strength was giving out just as she
reached the friendly piazza, and called on her mother
for help, sobbing hysterically as she repeated her
story, but dwelling most upon her ruined dress.

“What will Hugh say? It was not paid for,
either. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I most wish I was
dead!” she moaned, as her mother removed one
by one the saturated garments.

The sight of Hugh called forth her grief afresh, and
forgetful of her dishabille, she staggered toward
him, and impulsively winding her arms around his neck,
sobbed out:

“Oh, Hugh, Hugh! I’ve had such a
doleful time. I’ve been in the creek, the
carriage is broken, the horses are lamed, Caesar is
drunk, and—­and—­oh, Hugh, I’ve
spoiled my dress!”

Laughing merrily Hugh held her off at a little distance,
likening her to a mermaid fresh from the sea, and
succeeding at last in quieting her down until she
could give a more concise account of the catastrophe.

“Never mind the dress,” he said, good-humoredly,
as she kept recurring to that. “It isn’t
as if it were new. An old thing is never so valuable.”

Alas, that ’Lina did not then confess the truth.
Had she done so he would have forgiven her freely,
but she let the golden opportunity pass, and so paved
the way for much bitterness of feeling in the future.

During the gloomy weeks which followed, Hugh’s
heart and hands were full, inclination tempting him
to stay by the moaning Adah, who knew the moment he
was gone, and stern duty, bidding him keep with delirious
’Lina, who, strange to say, was always more quiet
when he was near, taking readily from him the medicine
refused when offered by her mother. Day after
day, week after week, Hugh watched alternately at the
bedsides, and those who came to offer help felt their
hearts glow with admiration for the worn, haggard
man, whose character they had so mistaken, never dreaming
what depths of patient, all-enduring tenderness were
hidden beneath his rough exterior. Even Ellen
Tiffton was softened, and forgetting the Ladies’
Fair, rode daily over to Spring Bank, ostensibly to
inquire after ’Lina, but really to speak a kindly
word to Hugh, to whom she felt she had done a wrong.
How long those fevers ran, and Hugh began to fear
that ’Lina’s never would abate, sorrowing
much for the harsh words which passed between them,
wishing they had been unsaid, for he would rather

Page 63

that none but pleasant memories should be left to
him of this, his only sister. But ’Lina
did not die, and as her disease had from the first
assumed a far more violent form than Adah’s,
so it was the first to yield, and February found her
convalescent. With Adah it was different.
But there came a change at last, a morning when she
awoke from a death-like stupor which had clouded her
faculties so long, as the attending physician said
to Hugh that his services would be needed but a little
longer. Physicians’ bills, together with
that of Harney’s yet unpaid, for Harney, villain
though he was, would not present it when Hugh was
full of trouble; but the hour was coming when it must
be settled, and Hugh at last received a note, couched
in courteous terms, but urging immediate payment.

“I’ll see him to-day. I’ll
know the worst at once,” he said, and mounting
Rocket, who never looked more beautiful than he did
that afternoon, he dashed down the Frankfort turnpike,
and was soon closeted with Harney.

CHAPTER XIII

HOW HUGH PAID HIS DEBTS

The perspiration was standing in great drops about
Hugh’s quivering lips, and his face was white
as ashes, as, near the close of that interview, he
hoarsely asked:

“Do I understand you, sir, that Rocket will
cancel this debt and leave you my debtor for one hundred
dollars?”

“Yes, that was my offer, and a most generous
one, too, considering how little horses are bringing,”
and Harney smiled villainously as he thought within
himself: “Easier to manage than I supposed.
I believe my soul I offered too much. I should
have made it an even thing.”

Hugh knew how long this plan had been premeditated,
and his blood boiled madly when he heard it suggested,
as if that moment had given it birth. Still he
restrained himself, and asked the question we have
recorded, adding, after Harney’s reply:

“And suppose I do not care to part with Rocket?”

Harney winced a little, but answered carelessly:

“Money, of course, is just as good. You
know how long I’ve waited. Few would have
done as well.”

Yes, Hugh knew that, but Rocket was as dear to him
as his right eye, and he would almost as soon have
plucked out the one as sold the other.

“I have not the money,” he said, frankly,
“and I cannot part with Rocket. Is there
nothing else? I’ll give a mortgage on Spring
Bank.”

Harney did not care for a mortgage, but there was
something else, and the rascally face brightened,
as, stepping back, while he made the proposition,
he faintly suggested “Lulu.” He would
give a thousand dollars for her, and Hugh could keep
his horse. For a moment the two young men regarded
each other intently, Hugh’s eyes flashing gleams
of fire, and his whole face expressive of the contempt
he felt for the wretch who cowed at last beneath the
look, and turned away muttering that “he saw
nothing so very heinous in wishing to purchase a nigger
wench.”

Page 64

Then, changing his tone to one of defiance, he added:

“Since you are not inclined to part with either
of your pets, you’ll oblige me with the money,
and before to-morrow night. You understand me,
I presume?”

“I do,” and bowing haughtily, Hugh passed
through the open door.

In a kind of desperation he mounted Rocket, and dashed
out of town at a speed which made more than one look
after him, wondering what cause there was for his
headlong haste. A few miles from the city he slacked
his speed, and dismounting by a running brook, sat
down to think. The price offered for Lulu would
set him free from every pressing debt, and leave a
large surplus, but not for a moment did he hesitate.

“I’d lead her out and shoot her through
the heart, before I’d do that thing,”
he said.

Then turning to the noble animal cropping the grass
beside him, he wound his arms around his neck, and
tried to imagine how it would seem to know the stall
at home was empty, and his beautiful Rocket gone.

“If I could pawn him,” he thought, just
as the sound of wheels was heard, and he saw old Colonel
Tiffton driving down the turnpike.

Between the colonel and his daughter Ellen there had
been a conversation that very day touching the young
man Hugh, in whom Ellen now felt a growing interest.
Seated in their handsome parlor, with her little hands
folded listlessly one above the other, Ellen was listening,
while her father told her mother.

“He didn’t see how that chap was ever
to pay his debts. One doctor twice a day for
three months was enough to ruin anybody, let alone
having two,” and the sometimes far-seeing old
colonel shook his head doubtfully.

Again a doubtful shake as the prudent colonel replied:
“And lose every red I lend, hey? That’s
the way a woman would do, I s’pose, but I am
too old for that. Now, if he could give good
security, I wouldn’t mind, but what’s
he got, pray, that we want?”

Ellen’s gray eyes scanned his face curiously
a moment, and then Ellen’s rather pretty lips
whispered in his ear: “He’s got Rocket,
pa.”

“Yes, yes, so he has; but no power on earth
could make him part with that nag. I’ve
always liked that boy, always liked old John, but the
plague knows what he did with his money.”

“You’ll help Hugh?” and Ellen returned
to the attack.

“Well,” said the old man, “we’ll
see about this Hugh matter,” and the colonel
left the house, and entered the buggy which had been
waiting to take him to Frankfort.

“That’s funny that I should run a-foul
of him,” he thought, stopping suddenly as he
caught sight of Hugh, and calling out cheerily:
“How d’ye, young man? That’s
a fine nag of yours. My Nell is nigh about crazy
for me to buy him. What’ll you take?”

“What’ll you give?” was Hugh’s
Yankee-like response, while the colonel, struck by
Hugh’s peculiar manner, settled himself back
in his buggy and announced himself ready to trade.

Page 65

Hugh knew he could trust the colonel, and after a
moment’s hesitation told of his embarrassments,
and asked the loan of five hundred dollars, offering
Rocket as security, with the privilege of redeeming
him in a year.

“You ask a steep sum,” he said, “but
I take it you are in a tight spot and don’t
know what else to do. That girl in the snow bank—­I’ll
be hanged if that was ever made quite clear to me.”

“It is to me, and that is sufficient,”
Hugh answered, while the old colonel replied:

“Good grit, Hugh. I like you for that.
In short, I like you for everything, and that’s
why I was sorry about that New York lady. You
see, it may stand in the way of your getting a wife
by and by, that’s all.”

“I shall never marry,” Hugh answered,
thinking of the Golden Haired.

“No?” the colonel replied. “Well,
there ain’t many good enough for you, that’s
a fact, and so I tell ’em when they get to—­get
to—­”

Hugh looked up inquiringly, his face flashing as he
guessed at what they got.

“Bless me, there’s ain’t many girls
good for anybody. I never saw but one, except
my Nell, that was worth a picayune, and that was Alice
Johnson.”

“Who? Who did you say?” And Hugh
grew white as marble.

The colonel replied: “I said Alice Johnson,
twentieth cousin of mine—­blast that fly!—­lives
in Massachusetts; splendid girl—­hang it
all can’t I hit him?—­there, I’ve
killed him.” And the colonel put up his
whip, never dreaming of the effect that name had produced
on Hugh, whose heart gave one great throb of hope,
and then grew heavy and sad as he thought how impossible
it was that the Alice Johnson the colonel knew could
be the Golden Haired.

“There are fifty by that name, no doubt,”
he said, “and if there were not, she is dead.”

Hugh dared not question the colonel further, and was
only too glad when the latter said: “If
I understand you, I can have Rocket for five hundred
dollars, provided I let you redeem him within a year.
Now that’s equivalent to my lending you five
hundred dollars out and out. I see, but seeing
it’s you, I reckon I’ll have to do it.
As luck will have it, I was going down to Frankfort
this very day to put some money in the bank, and if
you say so, we’ll clinch the bargain at once,”
and the colonel began to count the amount.

Alice Johnson was forgotten in that moment when Hugh
felt as if his very life was dying out. Then
chiding himself as weak, he lifted up his head and
said: “Rocket is yours.”

The words were like a sob; and the generous old man
hesitated. But Hugh was in earnest. His
debts must be paid, and that five hundred dollars
would do it.

“I’ll bring him around to-morrow.
Will that be time enough?” he asked, as he rolled
up the bills.

“Yes, oh, yes,” the colonel replied, while
Hugh continued: “And, colonel, you’ll—­you’ll
be kind to Rocket. He’s never been struck
a blow since he was broken to the saddle. He
wouldn’t know what it meant.”

Page 66

“Oh, yes, I see—­Rarey’s method.
Now I never could make that work. Have to lick
’em sometimes, but I’ll remember Rocket.
Good-day,” and gathering up his reins Colonel
Tiffton rode slowly away.

Hugh rode back to Frankfort and dismounted at Harney’s
door.

In silence Harney received the money, gave his receipt,
and then watched Hugh as he rode again from town,
muttering: “I shall remember that he knocked
me down, and some time I’ll repay it.”

It was dark when Hugh reached home, his flashing eyes
indicating the storm which burst forth the moment
he entered the room where ’Lina was sitting.
In tones which made even her tremble he accused her
of her treachery, pouring forth such a torrent of
wrath that his mother urged him to stop, for her sake
if no other. She could always quiet Hugh, and
he calmed down at once, hurling but one more missile
at his sister, and that in the shape of Rocket, who,
he said, was sold for her extravagance.

’Lina was proud of Rocket, and the knowledge
that he was sold touched her far more than all Hugh’s
angry words. But her tear a were of no avail;
the deed was done, and on the morrow Hugh, with an
unflinching hand, led his idol from the stable and
rode rapidly across the fields, leading another horse
which was to bring him home.

The next morning Lulu came running up the stairs,
exclaiming:

“He’s done come home, Rocket has.
He’s at the kitchen door.”

It was even as Lulu, said, for the homesick brute,
suspecting something wrong, had broken from his fastenings,
and bursting the stable door had come back to Spring
Bank, his halter dangling about his neck, and himself
looking very defiant, as if he were not again to be
coaxed away. At sight of Hugh he uttered a sound
of joy, and bounding forward planted both feet within
the door ere Hugh had time to reach it.

“Thar’s the old colonel now,” whispered
Claib, just as the colonel himself appeared to claim
his runaway.

“I’ll take him home myself,” he
said to the old colonel, emerging from his hiding
place behind the leach, and bidding Claib follow with
another horse Hugh went a second time to Colonel Tiffton’s
farm.

CHAPTER XIV

MRS. JOHNSON’S LETTER

The spring had passed away, and the warm June sun
was shining over Spring Bank, whose mistress and servants
were very lonely now, for Hugh was absent, and with
him the light of the house had departed. Business
of his late uncle’s had taken him to New Orleans,
where he might possibly remain all the summer.
’Lina was glad, for since the fatal dress affair
there had been but little harmony between herself and
her brother. The tenderness awakened by her long
illness seemed to have been forgotten, and Hugh’s
manner toward her was cold and irritating to the last
degree, so that the young lady rejoiced to be freed
from his presence.

Page 67

“I do hope he’ll stay all summer,”
she said one morning, when speaking of him to her
mother. “I think it’s a heap nicer
without him, though dull enough at the best.
I wish we could go somewhere, some watering place
I mean. There’s the Tifftons, just returned
from New York, and I don’t much believe they
can afford it more than we, for I heard their place
was mortgaged, or something. Oh, bother, to be
so poor,” and the young lady gave a little angry
jerk at the tags she was unbraiding.

“Whar’s ole miss’s?” asked
Claib, who had just returned from Versailles.
“Thar’s a letter for you,” and depositing
it upon the bureau, he left the room.

“Whose writing is that?” ’Lina said,
catching it up and examining the postmark. “Shall
I open it?” she called, and ere her mother could
reply, she had broken the seal, and held in her hand
the draft which made her the heiress of one thousand
dollars.

Had the fabled godmother of Cinderella appeared to
her suddenly, she would scarcely have been more bewildered.

“Mother,” she screamed again, reading
aloud the “’Pay to the order of Adaline
Worthington,’ etc. Who is Alice Johnson?
What does she say? ’My dear Eliza, feeling
that I have not long to live—­’ What—­dead,
hey? Well, I’m sorry for that, but, I must
say, she did a very sensible thing at the last, sending
me a thousand dollars. We’ll go somewhere
now, won’t we?” and clutching fast the
draft, the heartless girl yielded the letter to her
mother, who, burying her face in her hands, sobbed
bitterly as the past came back to her, when the Alice,
now at rest and herself were girls together.

’Lina took up the letter her mother had dropped
and read it through. “Wants you to take
her daughter, Alice. Is the woman crazy?
And her nurse, Densie, Densie Densmore. Where
have I heard that name before? Say, mother, let’s
talk the matter over. Shall you let Alice come?
Ten dollars a week, they’ll pay. Let me
see. Five hundred and twenty dollars a year.
Whew! We are rich as Jews. Our ship is really
coming in,” and ’Lina rang the bell and
ordered Lulu to bring “a lemonade with ice cut
fine and a heap of sugar in it.”

By this time Mrs. Worthington was able to talk of
a matter which had apparently so delighted ’Lina.
Her first remark, however, was not very pleasant to
the young lady:

“I would willingly give Alice a home, but it’s
not for me to say. Hugh alone can decide it.”

“You know he’ll refuse,” was ’Lina’a
angry reply. “He hates young ladies.
So you may as well save your postage to New Orleans,
and write at once to Miss Johnson that she cannot
come on account of a boorish clown.”

“Mother, you shall not,” and ’Lina
spoke determinedly. “I’ll send an
answer to this letter myself, this very day. I
will not suffer the chance to be thrown away.
Hugh may swear a little at first, but he’ll
get over it.”

Page 68

“Hugh never swears,” and Mrs. Worthington
spoke up at once.

“He don’t hey? Maybe you’ve
forgotten when he came home from Frankfort, that time
he heard about my dress!”

“I know he swore then; but he never has since,
I’m sure, and I think he is better, gentler,
more refined than he used to be, since—­since—­Adah
came.”

A contemptuous “Pshaw!” came from ’Lina’s
lips. “Say,” she continued, “wouldn’t
you rather Adah were your child than me? Then
you’d be granny, you know.” And a
laugh came from ’Lina’s lips.

Mrs. Worthington did not reply; and ’Lina proceeded
to speak of Alice Johnson, asking for her family.
Were they aristocratic? Were they the F.F.V.’s
of Boston? and so forth.

“Now let us talk a little about the thousand
dollars. What shall I do with it?” ’Lina
said, for already the money was beginning to burn in
her hands.

“Do you think I’ve taken leave of my senses?”
’Lina asked, with unaffected surprise.
“Buy Rocket for five hundred dollars! Indeed,
I shall do no such thing. If Hugh had not sworn
so awfully, I might; but I remember what he said too
well to part with half of my inheritance for him.
I’m going to Saratoga, and you are going, too.
We’ll have heaps of dresses, and—­oh,
mother, won’t it be grand! We’ll take
Lu for a waiting maid. That will be sure to make
a sensation at the North. I can imagine just
how old Deacon Tripp of Elwood, would open his eyes
when he heard ‘Mrs. Square Worthington and darter’
had come back with a ‘nigger.’ It
would furnish him with material for half a dozen monthly
concerts, and I’m not sure but he’d try
to run her off, if he had a chance. But Lu likes
Hugh too well ever to be coaxed away; so we’re
safe on that score. ’Mrs. Worthington,
daughter, and colored servant, Spring Bank, Kentucky.’
I can almost see that on the clerk’s books at
the United States. Then I can manage to let it
be known that I’m an heiress, as I am.
We needn’t tell that it’s only a thousand
dollars, most of which I have on my back, and maybe
I’ll come home Adaline somebody else. There
are always splendid matches at Saratoga. We’ll
go North the middle of July, just three weeks from
now.”

’Lina had talked so fast that Mrs. Worthington
had been unable to put in a word; but it did not matter.
’Lina was invulnerable to all she could say,
and it was in vain that she pleaded for Rocket, or
reminded the ungrateful girl of the many long, weary
nights, when Hugh had sat by her bedside, holding
her feverish hands and bathing her aching head.
This was very kind and brotherly, ’Lina admitted;
but she steeled her heart against the still, small
voice, which whispered to her: “Redeem Rocket,
and let Hugh find him here when he gets home.”

Page 69

’Lina wrote to Alice Johnson herself that morning,
went to Frankfort that afternoon, to Versailles and
Lexington the next day, and on the morning of the
third day after the receipt of Mrs. Johnson’s
letter, Spring Bank presented the appearance of one
vast show-room, so full it was of silks and muslins
and tissues and flowers and ribbons and laces, while
amid it all, in a maze of perplexity as to what was
required of her, or where first to commence, Adah
Hastings sat, a flush on her fair cheeks, and a tear
half dimming the luster of her eyes as thoughts of
Willie crying for mamma at home, and refusing to be
comforted even by old Sam came to her.

When ’Lina first made known her request to Adah,
to act as her dressmaker, Aunt Eunice had objected,
on the ground of Adah’s illness having been
induced by overwork, but ’Lina insisted so strenuously,
promising not to task her too much, and offering with
an air of extreme generosity to pay three shillings
a day, that Adah had consented, for pretty baby Willie
wanted many little things which Hugh would never dream
of, and for which she could not ask him. Three
shillings a day for twelve days or more seemed like
a fortune to Adah, and so she tore herself away from
Willie’s clinging arms and went willingly to
labor for the capricious ’Lina, ten times more
impatient and capricious since she “had come
into possession of property.”

Womanlike, the sight of ’Lina’s dresses
awoke in Adah a thrill of delight, and she entered
heartily into the matter without a single feeling
of envy.

“I’s goin’, too. Did you know
that?” Lulu said to her as she sat bending over
a cloud of lace and soft blue silk.

“Do you want to go?” Adah asked, and Lulu
replied:

“Not much. Miss ‘Lina will be so
lofty. Jes’ you listen and hear her call
me oncet. ‘Ho Loo-loo, come quick,’
jes’ as if she done nothin’ all her life
but order a nigger ’round. I knows better.
I knows how she done made her own bed, combed her
own ha’r, and like enough washed her own rags
afore she comed here. Yes, ‘Loo-loo is coming,’”
and the saucy wench darted off to ’Lina screaming
loudly for her.

“Miss Worthington,” Adah said, timidly,
as ’Lina came near, “Lulu tells me she
is going North with you. Why not take me instead
of her?”

“You!” and ’Lina’s black eyes
flashed scornfully. “What in the world
could I do with you and that child, and what would
people think? Why, I’d rather have Lulu
forty times. A negro gives an eclat to
one’s position which a white servant cannot.
By the way, here is Miss Tiffton’s square-necked
bertha. She’s just got home from New York,
and says they are all the fashion. You are to
cut me a pattern. There’s a paper, the
Louisville Journal, I guess, but nobody reads
it, now Hugh is gone,” and with a few more general
directions, ’Lina hurried away leaving Adah
so hot, so disappointed, that the hot tears fell upon
the paper she took in her hand, the paper containing
Anna Richards’ advertisement, intended solely
for the poor girl sitting so lonely and sad at Spring
Bank that summer morning.

Page 70

In spite of the doctor’s predictions and consignment
of that girl to Georgia, or some warmer place, it
had reached her at last. She did not see it at
first, so fast her tears fell, but just as her scissors
were raised to cut the pattern her eyes fell on the
spot headed, “A Curious Advertisement,”
and suspending her operations for a moment, she read
it through, a feeling rising in her heart that it
was surely an answer to her own advertisement, sent
forth months ago, with tearful prayers that it might
be successful.

At the table she heard ’Lina say that Claib
was going to town that afternoon, and thinking within
herself. “If a letter were only ready, he
could take it with him,” she asked permission
to write a few lines. It would not take her long,
she said, and she could work the later to make it
up.

’Lina did not refuse, and in a few moments Adah
penned a note to A.E.R.

“It’s an answer to an advertisement for
a governess or waiting maid,” she said, as ’Lina
glanced carelessly at the superscription.

“It will do no harm, or good either, I imagine,”
was ’Lina’a reply, and placing the letter
in her pocket, she was about returning to her mother,
when she spied Ellen Tiffton dismounting at the gate.

Ellen was delighted to see ’Lina, and ’Lina
was delighted to see Ellen, leading her at once into
the work-room, where Adah sat by the window, busy
on the bertha, and looking up quietly when Ellen entered,
as if half expecting an introduction. But ’Lina
did not deign to notice her, save in an aside to Ellen,
to whom she whispered softly:

“That girl, Adah, you know.”

Reared in a country where the menials all were black,
Ellen knew no such marked distinction among the whites,
and walked directly up to Adah, whose face seemed
to puzzle her. It was the first time they had
met, and Adah turned crimson beneath the close scrutiny
to which she was subjected. Noticing her embarrassment,
and wishing to relieve it, Ellen addressed to her
some trivial remark concerning her work, complimenting
her skill, asking some questions about Willie, whom
she had seen, and then leaving her for a girlish conversation
with ’Lina, to whom she related many particulars
of her visit to New York. Particularly was she
pleased with a certain Dr. Richards, who was described
as the most elegant young man at the hotel.

“There was something queer about him too,”
she said, in a lower tone, and drawing nearer to ’Lina.
“He seemed so absent-like, as if there were
something on his mind—­some heart trouble,
you know; but that only made him more interesting;
and such an adventure as I had, too. Send her
out of the room, please,” and nodding toward
Adah, Ellen spoke beneath her breath.

’Lina comprehended her meaning, and turning
to Adah said rather haughtily:

“It’s cool on the west end of the piazza.
You may go and sit there a while.”

With a heightened color at being thus addressed before
a stranger, Adah withdrew, and Ellen continued:

Page 71

“It’s so strange. I found in the
hall, near my door, a tiny ambrotype of a young girl,
who must have been very beautiful—­such splendid
hair, soft brown eyes, and cheeks like carnation pinks.
I wondered much whose it was, for I knew the owner
must be sorry to lose it. Father suggested that
we put a written notice in the business office, and
that very afternoon Dr. Richards knocked at our door,
saying the ambrotype was his. ‘I would
not lose it for the world,’ he said, ’as
the original is dead,’ and he looked so sad
that I pitied him so much; but I have the strangest
part yet to tell. You are sure she cannot hear?”
and walking to the open window, Ellen glanced down
the long piazza to where Adah’s dress was visible.

“I looked at the face so much that I never can
forget it, particularly the way the hair was worn,
combed almost as low upon the forehead as you wears
yours, and just as that Mrs. Hastings wears hers.
I noticed it the moment I came in; and, ’Lina,
Mrs. Hastings is the original of that ambrotype, I’m
sure, only the picture was younger, fresher-looking,
than she. But they are the same, I’m positive,
and that’s why I started so when I first saw
this Adah. Funny, isn’t it?”

’Lina knew just how positive Ellen was with
regard to any opinion she espoused, and presumed in
her own mind that in this point, as in many others,
she was mistaken. Still she answered that it was
queer, though she could not understand what Adah could
possibly be to Dr. Richards.

“Call her in for something and I’ll manage
to question her. I’m so curious and so
sure,” Ellen said, while ’Lina called:
“Adah, Miss Tiffton wishes to see how my new
blue muslin fits. Come help me try it on.”

Obedient to the call Adah came, and was growing very
red in the face with trying to hook ’Lina’s
dress, when Ellen casually remarked:

“You lived in New York, I think?”

“Yes, ma’am,” was the reply, and
Ellen continued:

“Maybe I saw some of your acquaintances.
I was there a long time.”

Oh, how eagerly Adah turned toward her now, the glad
thought flashing upon her that possibly she meant
George. Maybe he’d come home.

“Whom did you see?” she asked, her eyes
fixed wistfully on Ellen, who replied:

“Oh, a great many. There was Mr. Reed,
and Mr. Benedict, and Mr. Ward, and—­well,
I saw the most of Dr. Richards, perhaps. Do you
know either of them?”

“No, I never heard of them before,” was
the reply, so frankly spoken that Ellen was confounded,
for she felt sure that Dr. Richards was a name entirely
new to Adah.

“I thought you were mistaken,” ’Lina
said, when the dress was taken off and Adah gone.
“A man such as you describe the doctor would
not care for a poor girl like Adah. Is his home
at New York, and are you sure he’ll be at Saratoga?”

“He said so; and I think he told me his mother
and sisters were in some such place as Snow-down,
or Snow-something.”

Page 72

“Snowdon,” suggested ’Lina.
“That’s where Alice Johnson lives.
I must tell you of her.”

“Alice Johnson,” Ellen repeated; “why,
that’s the girl father says so much about.
Of course I fell in the scale, for there was nothing
like Alice, Alice—­so beautiful, so religious.”

“Religious!” and ’Lina laughed scornfully.
“Adah pretends to be religious, too, and so
does Sam, while Alice will make three. Pleasant
prospects ahead. I wonder if she’s the blue
kind—­thinks dancing wicked, and all that.”

Ellen could not tell. She thought it queer that
Mrs. Johnson should send her to a stranger, as it
were, when they would have been so glad to receive
her. “Pa won’t like it a bit, and
she’d be so much more comfortable with us,”
and Ellen glanced contemptuously around at the neat
but plainly-furnished room.

It was not the first time Ellen had offended by a
similar remark, and ’Lina flared up at once.
Mrs. Johnson knew her mother well, and knew to whom
she was committing her daughter.

“Did she know Hugh, too?” hot-tempered
Ellen asked, sneeringly, whereupon there ensued a
contest of words touching Hugh, in which Rocket, the
Ladies’ Fair, and divers other matters figured
conspicuously, and when, ten minutes later, Ellen left
the house, she carried with her the square-necked
bertha, together with sundry other little articles
of dress, which she had lent for patterns, and the
two were, on the whole, as angry as a sandy-haired
and black-eyed girl could be.

“What a stupid I was to say such hateful things
of Hugh, when I really do like him,” was Ellen’s
comment as she galloped away, while ’Lina muttered:
“I stood up for Hugh once, anyhow. To think
of her twitting me about our house, when everybody
says the colonel is likely to fail any day,”
and ’Lina ran off upstairs to indulge in a fit
of crying over what she called Nell Tiffton’s
meanness.

One week later and there came a letter from Alice
herself, saying that at present she was stopping in
Boston with her guardian, Mr. Liston, who had rented
the cottage in Snowdon, but that she would meet Mrs.
Worthington and daughter at Saratoga. Of course
she did not now feel like mingling in gay society
and should consequently go to the Columbian, where
she could be comparatively quiet; but this need not
in the least interfere with their arrangements, as
the United States was very near, and they could see
each other often.

The same day also brought a letter from Hugh, making
many kind inquiries after them all, saying his business
was turning out better than he expected, and inclosing
forty dollars, fifteen of which, he said, was for
Adah, and the rest for Ad, as a peace offering for
the harsh things he had said to her. Forty dollars
was just the price of a superb pearl bracelet in Lexington,
and if Hugh had only sent it all to her instead of
a part to Adah! The letter was torn in shreds,
and ’Lina went to Lexington next day in quest
of the bracelet, which was pronounced beautiful by
the unsuspecting Adah, who never dreamed that her money
had helped to pay for it. Truly ’Lina was
heaping up against herself a dark catalogue of sin
to be avenged some day, but the time was not yet.

Page 73

Thus far everything went swimmingly. The dresses
fitted admirably, and nothing could exceed the care
with which they had been packed. Her mother no
longer bothered her about Hugh. Lulu was quite
well posted with regard to her duty.

Thus it was in the best of humors, that ’Lina
tripped from Spring Bank door one pleasant July morning,
and was driven with her mother and Lulu to Lexington,
where they intended taking the evening train for Cincinnati.

CHAPTER XV

These were the last entries the flaxen-haired clerk
at Union Hall had made, feeling sure, as he made them,
that each one had been first to the United States,
and failing to find accommodations there, had come
down to Union Hall.

The Union was so crowded that for the newcomers no
rooms were found except the small, uncomfortable ones
far up in the fourth story of the Ainsworth block,
and thither, in not the most amiable mood, ’Lina
followed her trunks, and was followed in turn by her
mother and Lulu, the crowd whom they passed deciphering
the name upon the trunks and whispering to each other:
“From Spring Bank, Kentucky. Haughty-looking
girl, wasn’t she?”

From his little twelve by ten apartment, where the
summer sun was pouring in a perfect blaze of heat,
Dr. Richards saw them pass, and after wondering who
they were, and hoping they would be comfortable in
their pen, gave them no further thought, but sat jamming
his penknife into the old worm-eaten table, and thinking
savage thoughts against that capricious lady, Fortune,
who had compelled him to come to Saratoga, where rich
wives were supposed to be had for the asking.
In Dr. Richard’s vest pocket there lay at this
very moment a delicate little note, the meaning of
which was that Alice Johnson declined the honor of
becoming his wife. Now he was ready for the first
chance that offered, provided that chance possessed
a certain style, and was tolerably good-looking.

This, then, was Dr. Richards’ errand to Saratoga,
and one cause of his disgust at being banished from
the United States, where heiresses were usually to
be found in such abundance.

From his pleasanter, airier apartment, on the other
side of the narrow hall, Irving Stanley looked out
through his golden glasses, pitying the poor ladies
condemned to that slow roast.

How hot, and dusty, and cross ’Lina was, and
what a look of dismay she cast around the room, with
its two bedsteads, its bureau, its table, its washstand,
and its dozen pegs for her two dozen dresses, to say
nothing of her mother’s.

Page 74

How tired and faint poor Mrs. Worthington was, sinking
down upon the high-post bed! How she wished she
had stayed at home, like a sensible woman, instead
of coming here to be made so uncomfortable in this
hot room. But it could not now be helped, ’Lina
said; they must do the best they could; and with a
forlorn glance at the luxuriant patch of weeds, the
most prominent view from the window, ’Lina opened
one of her trunks, and spreading a part of its contents
upon the bed, began to dress for dinner. The
dinner bell had long since ceased ringing, and the
tread of feet ceased in the halls below ere she descended
to the deserted parlor, followed by her mother, nervous
and frightened at the prospect of this, her first
appearance at Saratoga.

“Pray, rouse yourself,” ’Lina whispered,
“and not let them guess you were never at a
watering place before,” and ’Lina thoughtfully
smoothed her mother’s cap by way of reassuring
her.

But even ’Lina herself quailed when she reached
the door and caught a glimpse of the busy life within,
the terrible ordeal she must pass.

“Oh, for a pair of pantaloons to walk beside
one, even if Hugh were in them,” she thought,
as her own and her mother’s lonely condition
arose before her.

“Courage, mother,” she whispered again,
and then advanced into the room, growing bolder at
every step, for with one rapid glance she had swept
the hall, and felt that amid that bevy of beauty and
fashion there were few more showy than ’Lina
Worthington in her rustling dress of green, with Ellen
Tiffton’s bracelet on one arm and the one bought
with Adah’s money on the other.

Not having been an heiress long enough to know just
what was expected of her, and fancying it quite in
character to domineer over every colored person just
as she did over Lulu, ’Lina issued her commands
with a dignity worthy of the firm of Mrs. Worthington
& Daughter. Bowing deferentially, the polite
attendant quickly drew back her chair, while she spread
out her flowing skirts to an extent which threatened
to envelop her mother, sinking meekly into her seat,
not confused and flurried. But alas for ’Lina.
The servant did not calculate the distance aright,
and my lady, who had meant to do the thing so gracefully,
who had intended showing the people that she had been
to Saratoga before, suddenly found herself prostrate
upon the floor, the chair some way behind her, and
the plate, which, in her descent, she had grasped
unconsciously, flying off diagonally past her mother’s
head, and fortunately past the head of her mother’s
left-hand neighbor.

Poor ’Lina! How she wished she might never
get up again.

At first, ’Lina thought nothing could keep her
tears back, they gathered so fast in her eyes, and
her voice trembled so that she could not answer the
servant’s question:

“Soup, madam, soup?”

But he of the white hand did it for her.

“Of course she’ll take soup,” then
in an aside, he said to her gently: “Never
mind, you are not the first lady who has been served
in that way. It’s quite a common occurrence.”

Page 75

There was something reassuring in his voice, and turning
toward him for the first time, ’Lina caught
the gleam of the golden glasses, and knew that her
vis-a-vis upstairs was also her right-hand neighbor.
Who was he, and whom did he so strikingly resemble?
Suddenly it came to her. Saving the glasses,
he was very much like Hugh. No handsomer, not
a whit, but more accustomed to society, easier in
his manners and more gallant to ladies. Could
it be Irving Stanley? she asked herself, remembering
now to have heard that he did resemble Hugh, and also
that he wore glasses. Yes, she was sure, and
the red which the doctor had pronounced “well
put on,” deepened on her cheeks, until her whole
face was crimson with mortification, that such should
have been her first introduction to the aristocratic
Irving.

Kind and gentle as a woman, Irving Stanley was sometimes
laughed at by his own sex, as too gentle, too feminine
in disposition; but those who knew him best loved
him most, and loved him, too, just because he was
not so stern, so harsh, so overbearing as lords of
creation are wont to be.

Such was Irving Stanley, and ’Lina might well
be thankful that her lot was cast so near him.
He did not talk to her at the table further than a
few commonplace remarks, but when, after dinner was
over, and his Havana smoked, he found her sitting
with her mother out in the grove, apart from everybody,
and knew instantly that they were there alone, he went
to them at once, and ere many minutes had elapsed discovered
to his surprise that they were his so-called cousins
from Kentucky. Nothing could exceed ’Lina’s
delight. He was there unfettered by mother or
sister or sweetheart, and of course would attach himself
exclusively to her. ’Lina was very happy,
and more than once her loud laugh rang out so loud
that Irving, with all his charity, had a faint suspicion
that around his Kentucky cousin, brilliant though
she was, there might linger a species of coarseness,
not altogether agreeable to one of his refinement.
Still he sat chatting with her until the knowing dowagers,
who year after year watch such things at Saratoga,
whispered behind their fans of a flirtation between
the elegant Mr. Stanley and that dark, haughty-looking
girl from Kentucky.

“I never saw him so familiar with a stranger
upon so short an acquaintance,” said fat Mrs.
Buford.

“Is that Irving Stanley, whom Lottie Gardner
talks so much about?” And Mrs. Richards leveled
her glass again, for Irving Stanley was not unknown
to her by reputation. “She must be somebody,
John, or he would not notice her,” and she spoke
in an aside, adding in a louder tone: “I
wonder who she is? There’s their servant.
I mean to question her,” and as Lulu came near,
she said: “Girl, who do you belong to?”

“’Longs to them,” answered Lulu,
jerking her head toward ’Lina and Mrs. Worthington.

“Where do you live?” was the next query,
and Lulu replied:

Page 76

“Spring Bank, Kentucky. Missus live in
big house, ’most as big as this;” then
anxious to have the ordeal passed, and fearful that
she might not acquit herself satisfactorily to ’Lina,
who, without seeming to notice her, had drawn near
enough to hear, she added: “Miss ’Lina
is an airey, a very large airey, and has a heap of—­of—­”
Lulu hardly knew what, but finally in desperation
added: “a heap of a’rs,” and
then fled away ere another question could be asked
her.

“What did she say she was?” Mrs. Richards
asked, and the doctor replied:

“She said an airey. She meant an heiress.”

Money, or the reputation of possessing money, is an
all-powerful charm, and in few places does it show
its power more plainly than at Saratoga, where it
was soon known that the lady from Spring Bank, with
pearls in her hair, and pearl bracelets on her arms,
was heiress to immense wealth in Kentucky, how immense
nobody knew, and various were the estimates put upon
it. Among Mrs. Bufort’s clique it was twenty
thousand, farther away in another hall it was fifty,
while Mrs. Richards, ere the supper hour arrived,
had heard that it was at least a hundred thousand dollars.
How or where she heard it she hardly knew, but she
indorsed the statement as current, and at the tea
table that night was exceedingly gracious to ’Lina
and her mother, offering to divide a little private
dish which she had ordered for herself, and into which
poor Mrs. Worthington inadvertently dipped, never
dreaming that it was not common property.

“It was not of the slightest consequence, Mrs.
Richards was delighted to share it with her,”
and that was the way the conversation commenced.

’Lina knew now that the proud man whose lip
had curled so scornfully at dinner was Ellen’s
Dr. Richards, and Dr. Richards knew that the girl who
sat on the floor was ’Lina Worthington, from
Spring Bank, where Alice Johnson was going.

CHAPTER XVI

THE COLUMBIAN

It was very quiet at the Columbian, and the few gentlemen
seated upon the piazza seemed to be of a different
stamp from those at the more fashionable houses, as
there were none of them smoking, nor did they stare
impertinently at the gayly-dressed lady coming-up the
steps, and inquiring of the clerk if Miss Alice Johnson
were there.

Yes, she was, and her room was No. ——.
Should he send the lady’s card? Miss Johnson
had mostly kept her room.

’Lina had brought no card, but she gave her
name, and passed on into the parlor, which afforded
a striking contrast to the beehive downtown. In
a corner two or three were sitting; another group
occupied a window; while at the piano were two more,
an old and a young lady; the latter of whom was seated
upon the stool, and with her foot upon the soft pedal,
was alternately striking a few sweet, musical chords,
and talking to her companion, who seemed to be a little
deaf.

Page 77

“This is Miss Johnson,” and the waiter
bowed toward the musician, who, quick as thought,
seized upon the truth, and springing to Mrs. Worthington’s
side, exclaimed:

“It’s Mrs. Worthington, I know, my mother’s
early friend. Why did you sit here so long without
speaking to me? I am Alice Johnson,” and
overcome with the emotions awakened by the sight of
her mother’s early friend, Alice hid her face
with childlike confidence in Mrs. Worthington’s
bosom, and sobbed for a moment bitterly.

Then growing calm, she lifted up her head and smiling
through her tears said:

“Forgive me for this introduction. It is
not often I give way, for I know and am sure it was
best and right that mother should die. I am not
rebellious now, but the sight of you brought it back
so vividly. You’ll be my mother, won’t
you?” and kissing the fat white hands involuntarily
smoothing her bright hair, the impulsive girl nestled
closer to Mrs. Worthington, looking up into her face
with a confiding affection which won a place for her
at once in Mrs. Worthington’s heart.

“My darling,” she said, winding her arm
around her waist, “as far as I can I will be
to you a mother, and ’Lina shall be your sister.
This is ’Lina, dear,” and she turned to
’Lina, who, piqued at having been so long unnoticed,
was frowning gloomily.

But ’Lina never met a glance purer or more free
from guile than that which Alice gave her, and it
disarmed her at once of all jealousy, making her return
the orphan’s kisses with as much apparent cordiality
as they had been given. During this scene the
woman of the snowy hair and jet black eyes had stood
silently by, regarding ’Lina with that same
curious expression which had so annoyed the young lady,
and from which she now intuitively shrank.

“My nurse, Densie Densmore,” Alice said
at last, adding in an aside: “She is somewhat
deaf and may not hear distinctly, unless you speak
quite loud. Poor old Densie,” she continued,
as the latter bowed to her new acquaintances, and
then seated herself at a respectful distance.
“She has been in our family for a long time.”
Then changing the conversation, Alice made many inquiries
concerning Kentucky, startling them with the announcement
that she had that day received a letter from Colonel
Tiffton, who she believed was a friend of theirs, urging
her to spend a few weeks with him. “They
heard from you what were mother’s plans for
my future, and also that I was to meet you here.
They must be very thoughtful people, for they seem
to know that I cannot be very happy here.”

For a moment ’Lina and her mother looked aghast,
and neither knew what to say. ’Lina, as
usual, was the first to rally and calculate results.

They were very intimate at Colonel Tiffton’s.
She and Ellen were fast friends. It was very
pleasant there, more so than at Spring Bank; and all
the objection she could see to Alice’s going
was the fear lest she should become so much attached
to Mosside, the colonel’s residence, as to be
homesick at Spring Bank.

Page 78

“If she’s going, I hope she’ll go
before Dr. Richards sees her, though perhaps he knows
her already—­his mother lives in Snowdon,”
’Lina thought, and rather abruptly she asked
if Alice knew Dr. Richards, who was staying at the
Union.

Alice blushed crimson as she replied:

“Yes, I know him very well and his family, too.
Are either of his sisters with him?”

“His mother is here,” ’Lina replied,
“and I like her so much. She is very familiar
and friendly; don’t you think so?”

Alice would not tell a lie, and she answered frankly:

“She does not bear that name in Snowdon.
They consider her very haughty there. I think
you must be a favorite.”

“Are they very aristocratic and wealthy?”
’Lina asked, and Alice answered:

“Aristocratic, not wealthy. They were very
kind to me, and the doctor’s sister, Anna, is
one of the sweetest ladies I ever knew. She may
possibly be here during the summer. She is an
invalid, and has been for years.”

Suddenly Ellen Tiffton’s story of the ambrotype
flashed into ’Lina’s mind. Alice
might know something of it, and after a little she
asked if the doctor had not at one time been engaged.

Alice did not know. It was very possible.
Why did Miss Worthington ask the question?

’Lina did not stop to consider the propriety
or impropriety of making so free with a stranger,
and unhesitatingly repeated what Ellen Tiffton had
told her of the ambrotype. This, of course, compelled
her to speak of Adah, who, she said, came to them
under very suspicious circumstances, and was cared
for by her eccentric brother, Hugh.

In spite of the look of entreaty visible on Mrs. Worthington’s
face, ’Lina said:

“To be candid with you, Miss Johnson, I’m
afraid you won’t like Hugh. He has many
good traits, but I am sorry to say we have never succeeded
in cultivating him one particle, so that he is very
rough and boorish in his manner, and will undoubtedly
strike you unfavorably. I may as well tell you
this, as you will probably hear it from Ellen Tiffton,
and must know it when you see him. He is not
popular with the ladies; he hates them all, he says.
Mother, Loo-loo, come,” and breaking off from
her very sisterly remarks concerning Hugh, ’Lina
sprang up in terror as a large beetle, attracted by
the light, fastened itself upon her hair.

Mrs. Worthington was the first to the rescue, while
Lulu, who had listened with flashing eye when Hugh
was the subject of remark, came laggardly, whispering
slyly to Alice:

“That’s a lie she done tell you about
Mas’r Hugh. He ain’t rough, nor bad,
and we blacks would die for him any day.”

Alice was confounded at this flat contradiction between
mistress and servant, while a faint glimmer of the
truth began to dawn upon her. The “horn-bug”
being disposed of, ’Lina became quiet, and might,
perhaps, have taken up Hugh again, but for a timely
interruption in the shape of Irving Stanley, who had
walked up to the Columbian, and seeing ’Lina
and her mother through the window, sauntered leisurely
into the parlor.

Page 79

“Ah, Mr. Stanley,” and ’Lina half
arose from her chair, thus intimating that he was
to join them. “Miss Johnson, Mr. Stanley,”
and ’Lina watched them closely.

“You have positively been smitten by Miss Johnson’s
pretty face,” said ’Lina, laughing a little
spitefully, as they parted at the piazza, Irving to
go after his accustomed glasses of water, and ’Lina
to seek out Dr. Richards in the parlor. “Yes,
I know you are smitten, and inasmuch as we are cousins,
I shall expect to see you at Spring Bank some day
not far in the future.”

“It is quite probable you will,” was Irving’s
reply, as he walked away, his head and heart full
of Alice Johnson.

Meantime “Mrs. Worthington, daughter and servant,”
had entered the still crowded parlors, where Mrs.
Richards sat fanning herself industriously, and watching
her John with motherly interest as he sauntered from
one group of ladies to another, wondering what made
Saratoga so dull, and where Miss Worthington had gone.
It is not to be supposed that Dr. Richards cared a
fig for Miss Worthington as Miss Worthington.
It was simply her immense figure he admired, and as,
during the evening he had heard on good authority
that said figure was made up mostly of cotton growing
on some Southern field, the exact locality of which
his informant did not know, he had decided that, of
course, Miss ’Lina’s fortune was over-estimated.
Such things always were, but still she must be wealthy.
He had no doubt of that, and he might as well devote
himself to her as to wait for some one else.
Accordingly the moment he spied her in the crowd he
joined her, asking if they should not take a little
turn up and down the piazza.”

“Wait till I ask mamma’s permission to
stay up a little longer. She always insists upon
my keeping such early hours,” was ’Lina’s
very filial and childlike reply, as she walked up
to mamma, not to ask permission, but to whisper rather
peremptorily, “Dr. Richards wishes me to walk
with him, and as you are tired, you may as well go
to bed!”

Meantime the doctor and ’Lina were walking up
and down the long piazza, chatting gayly, and attracting
much attention from ’Lina’s loud manner
of talking and laughing.

“By the way, I’ve called on Miss Johnson,
at the Columbian,” she said. “Beautiful,
isn’t she?”

“Ra-ather pretty, some would think,” and
the doctor had an uncomfortable consciousness of the
refusal in his vest pocket.

If Alice had told. But no, he knew her better
than that. He could trust her on that score,
and so the dastardly coward affected to sneer at what
he called her primness, charging ’Lina to be
careful what she did, if she did not want a lecture,
and asking if there were any ragged children in Kentucky,
as she would not be happy unless she was running a
Sunday school!

“She can teach the negroes! Capital!”
and ’Lina laughed so loudly that Mrs. Richards
joined them, laughing, too, at what she did not know,
only—­Miss Worthington had such spirits;
it did one good; and she wished Anna was there to
be enlivened.

Page 80

“Write to her, John, won’t you?”

John mentally thought it doubtful. Anna and ’Lina
would never assimilate, and he would rather not have
his pet sister’s opinion to combat until his
own was fully made up.

“Anna—­oh, yes!” ’Lina
exclaimed. “Miss Johnson spoke of her as
the sweetest lady she ever saw. I wish she would
come. I’m so anxious to see her. An
invalid, I believe?”

Yes, dear Anna was a sad invalid, and cared but little
to go from home, though if she could find a waiting
maid, such as she had been in quest of for the last
six months she might perhaps be persuaded.

“A waiting maid,” ’Lina repeated
to herself, remembering the forgotten letter in her
dress pocket, wondering if it could be Anna Richards,
whose advertisement Adah had answered, and if it were,
congratulating herself upon her thoughtlessness in
forgetting it, as she would not for the world have
Adah Hastings, with her exact knowledge of Spring Bank,
in Mrs. Richards’ family. It passed her
mind that the very dress had been given to Adah, who
might find the letter yet. She only reflected
that the letter never was sent, and felt glad accordingly.
Very adroitly she set herself at work to ascertain
if Anna Richards and “A.E.R.” were one
and the same individual.

If Anna wished for a waiting maid, she could certainly
find one, she should suppose. She might advertise.

“She has,” and the doctor began to laugh.
“The most ridiculous thing. I hardly remember
the wording, but it has been copied and recopied, for
its wording, annoying Anna greatly, and bringing to
our doors so many unfortunate women in search of places,
that my poor little sister trembles now every time
the bell rings, thinking it some fresh answer to her
advertisement.”

“I’ve seen it,” and ’Lina
very unconsciously laid her hand on his arm.
“It was copied and commented upon by Prentice,
and my sewing woman actually thought of answering
it, thinking the place would suit her. I told
her it was preposterous that ‘A.E.R.’ should
want her with a child.”

“The very one to suit Anna,” and the doctor
laughed again. “That was one of the requirements,
or something. How was it, mother? I think
we must manage to get your sewing woman. What
is her name?”

’Lina had trodden nearer dangerous ground than
she meant to do, and she veered off at once, replying
to the doctor:

“Oh, she would not suit at all. She’s
too—­I hardly know what, unless I say, lifeless,
or insipid. And then, I could not spare my seamstress.
She cuts nearly all my dresses.”

“She must be a treasure. I have noticed
how admirably they fitted,” and old Mrs. Richards
glanced again at the blue silk, half wishing that Anna
had just such a waiting maid, they could all find her
so useful. “If John succeeds, maybe Miss
Worthington will bring her North,” was her mental
conclusion, and then, as it was growing rather late,
she very thoughtfully excused herself, saying, “It
was time old people retired; young ones, of course,
could act at their own discretion. She would not
hurry them,” and hoping to see more of Miss Worthington
to-morrow, she bowed good-night, and left the doctor
alone with ’Lina.

Page 81

“In the name of the people, what are you sitting
up for?” was ’Lina’s first remark
when she went upstairs, followed by a glowing account
of what Dr. Richards had said, and the delightful
time she’d had. “Only play our cards
well, and I’m sure to go home the doctor’s
fiancee. Won’t Ellen Tiffton stare
when I tell her, mother?” and ’Lina spoke
in a low tone. “The doctor thinks I’m
very rich. So do all the people here. Lulu
has told that I’m an heiress; now don’t
you upset it all with your squeamishness about the
truth. Nobody will ask you how much I’m
worth, so you won’t be compelled to a lie direct.
Just keep your tongue between your teeth, and leave
the rest to me. Will you?”

There was, as usual, a feeble remonstrance, and then
the weak woman yielded so far as promising to keep
silent was concerned.

Meantime the doctor sat in his own room nearby, thinking
of ’Lina Worthington, and wishing she were a
little more refined.

“Where does she get that coarseness?”
he thought. “Not from her mother, certainly.
She seems very gentle and ladylike. It must be
from the Worthingtons,” and the doctor wondered
where he had heard that name before, and why it affected
him rather unpleasantly, bringing with it memories
of Lily. “Poor Lily,” he sighed mentally.
“Your love would have made me a better man if
I had not cast it from me. Dear Lily, the mother
of my child,” and a tear half trembled in his
eyelashes, as he tried to fancy that child; tried
to hear the patter of the little feet running to welcome
him home, as they might have done had he been true
to Lily; tried to hear the baby voice calling him
“papa;” to feel the baby hands upon his
face—­his bearded face where the great tears
were standing now. “I did love Lily,”
he murmured; “and had I known of the child I
never could have left her. Oh, Lily, my lost
Lily, come back to me, come!” and his arms were
stretched out into empty space, as if he fain would
encircle again the girlish form he had so often held
in his embrace.

It was very late ere Dr. Richards slept that night,
and the morning found him pale, haggard and nearly
desperate. Thoughts of Lily were gone, and in
their place was a fixed determination to follow on
in the course he had marked out, to find him a rich
wife, to cast remorse to the winds, and be as happy
as he could.

How anxious the doctor was to have Alice go; how fearful
lest she should not; and how relieved when asked by
’Lina one night to go with her the next morning
and see Miss Johnson off. There were Mrs. Worthington
and ’Lina, Dr. Richards and Irving Stanley,
and a dozen more admirers, who, dazzled with Alice’s
beauty, were dancing attendance upon her to the latest
moment, but none looked so sorry as Irving Stanley,
or said good-by so unwillingly, and ’Lina, as
she saw the wistful gaze he sent after the receding
train, playfully asked him if he did not feel some
like the half of a pair of scissors.

Page 82

The remark jarred painfully on Irving’s finer
feelings, while the doctor, affecting to laugh and
ejaculate “pretty good,” wished so much
that his black-eyed lady were different in some things.

CHAPTER XVII

HUGH

An unexpected turn in Hugh’s affairs made it
no longer necessary for him to remain in the sultry
climate of New Orleans, and just one week from his
mother’s departure from Spring Bank he reached
it, expressing unbounded surprise when he heard from
Aunt Eunice where his mother had gone, and how she
had gone.

“Fool and his money soon parted,” Hugh
said. “I can fancy just the dash Ad is
making. But who sent the money?”

“A Mrs. Johnson, an old friend of your mother’s,”
Aunt Eunice replied, while Hugh looked up quickly,
wondering why the Johnsons should be so continually
thrust upon him, when the only Johnson for whom he
cared was dead years ago.

“And the young lady—­what about her?”
he asked, while Aunt Eunice told him the little she
knew, which was that Mrs. Johnson wished her daughter
to come to Spring Bank, but she did not know what they
had concluded upon.

“That she should not come, of course,”
Hugh said. “They had no right to give her
a home without my consent, and I’ve plenty of
young ladies at Spring Bank now. Oh, it was such
a relief when I was gone to know that in all New Orleans
there was not a single hoop annoyed on my account.
I had a glorious time doing as I pleased.”

“And yet you’ve improved, seems to me,”
Aunt Eunice said.

“Oh, I’ll turn out a polished dandy by
and by, who knows?” Hugh answered, laughingly;
then helping his aunt to mount the horse which had
brought her to Spring Bank, he returned to the house,
which seemed rather lonely, notwithstanding that he
had so often wished he could once more be alone, just
as he was before his mother came.

On the whole, however, he enjoyed his freedom from
restraint, and very rapidly fell back into his old
loose way of living, bringing his dogs even into the
parlor, and making it a repository for both his hunting
and fishing apparatus.

“It’s splendid to do as I’m mind
to,” he said, one hot August morning, nearly
three weeks after his mother’s departure.

“Hello, Mug, what do you want?” he asked,
as a very bright-looking little mulatto girl appeared
in the door.

“Claib done buyed you this yer,” and the
child handed him the letter from his mother.

The first of it was full of affection for her boy,
and Hugh felt his heart growing very tender as he
read, but when he reached the point where poor, timid
Mrs. Worthington tried to explain about Alice, making
a wretched bungle, and showing plainly how much she
was swayed by ’Lina, it began to harden at once.

“What the plague!” he exclaimed as he
read on. “Suppose I remember having heard
her speak of her old school friend, Alice Morton?
I don’t remember any such thing. Her daughter’s
name’s Alice—­Alice Johnson,”
and Hugh for an instant turned white, so powerfully
that name always affected him.

Page 83

“She is going to Colonel Tiffton’s first,
though they’ve all got the typhoid fever, I
hear, and that’s no place for her. That
fever is terrible on Northerners—­terrible
on anybody. I’m afraid of it myself, and
I wish this horrid throbbing I’ve felt for a
few days would leave my head. It has a fever
feel that I don’t like,” and the young
man pressed his hand against his temples, trying to
beat back the pain which so much annoyed him.

Just then Collonel Tiffton was announced, his face
wearing an anxious look, and his voice trembling as
he told how sick his Nell was, how sick they all were,
and then spoke of Alice Johnson.

“She’s the same girl I told you about
the day I bought Rocket; some little kin to me, and
that makes it queer why her mother should leave her
to you. I knew she would not be happy at Saratoga,
and so we wrote for her to visit us. She is on
the road now, will be here day after to-morrow, and
something must be done. She can’t come to
us without great inconvenience to ourselves and serious
danger to her. Hugh, my boy, there’s no
other way—­she must come to Spring Bank,”
and the old colonel laid his hand on that of Hugh,
who looked at him aghast, but made no immediate reply.

“A pretty state of things, and a pretty place
to bring a lady,” he muttered, glancing ruefully
around the room and enumerating the different articles
he knew were out of place. “Fish worms,
fishhooks, fishlines, bootjack, boot-blacking, and
rifle, to say nothing of the dogs—­and me!”

The last was said in a tone as if the “me”
were the most objectionable part of the whole, as,
indeed, Hugh thought it was.

“I wonder how I do look to persons wholly unprejudiced!”
Hugh said, and turning to Muggins he asked what she
thought of him.

“I thinks you berry nice. I likes you berry
much,” the child replied, and Hugh continued:

“Yes; but how do I look, I mean? What do
I look like, a dandy or a scarecrow?”

Muggins regarded him for a moment curiously, and then
replied:

“I’se dunno what kind of thing that dandy
is, but I ’members dat yer scarecrow what Claib
make out of mas’r’s trouse’s and
coat, an’ put up in de cherry tree. I thinks
da look like Mas’r Hugh—­yes, very
much like!”

Hugh laughed long and loud, pinching Mug’s dusky
cheek, and bidding her run away.

“Pretty good,” he exclaimed, when he was
left alone, “That’s Mug’s opinion.
Look like a scarecrow. I mean to see for myself,”
and going into the sitting-room, where the largest
mirror was hung, he scanned curiously the figure which
met his view, even taking a smaller glass, and holding
it so as to get a sight of his back. “Tall,
broad-shouldered, straight, well-built. My form
is well enough,” he said. “It’s
the clothes that bother. I mean to get some new
ones. Then, as to my face,” and Hugh turned
himself around, “I never thought of it before;
but my features are certainly regular, teeth can’t

Page 84

be beaten, good brown skin, such as a man should have,
eyes to match, and a heap of curly hair. I’ll
be hanged if I don’t think I’m rather good-looking!”
and with his spirits proportionately raised, Hugh whistled
merrily as he went in quest of Aunt Chloe, to whom
he imparted the startling information that on the
next day but one, a young lady was coming to Spring
Bank, and that, in the meantime, the house must be
cleaned from garret to cellar, and everything put
in order for the expected guest.

With growing years, Aunt Chloe had become rather cross
and less inclined to work than formerly, frequently
sighing for the days when “Mas’r John
didn’t want no clarin’ up, but kep’
things lyin’ handy.” With her hands
on her fat hips she stood, coolly regarding Hugh, who
was evidently too much in earnest to be opposed.
Alice was coming, and the house must be put in order.

The cleaning and arranging was finished at last, and
everything within the house was as neat and orderly
as Aunt Eunice and Adah could make it, even Aunt Chloe
acknowledging that “things was tiptop,”
but said, “it was no use settin’ ’em
to rights when Mas’r Hugh done onsot ’em
so quick;” but Hugh promised to do better.
He would turn over a new leaf, so by way of commencement,
on the morning of Alice’s expected arrival he
deliberately rolled up his towel and placed it under
his pillow instead of his nightshirt, which he hung
conspicuously over the washstand. His boots were
put behind the fire-board, his every day hat jammed
into the bandbox where ’Lina kept her winter
bonnet, and then, satisfied that so far as his room
was concerned, everything was in order, he descended
the stairs and went into the garden to gather fresh
flowers with which still further to adorn Alice’s
room. Hugh was fond of flowers, and two most
beautiful bouquets were soon arranged and placed in
the vases brought from the parlor mantel, while Muggins,
who trotted beside him, watching his movements and
sometimes making suggestions, was told to see that
they were freshly watered, and not allowed to stand
where the sun could shine on them, as they might fade
before Miss Johnson came.

During the excitement of preparing for Alice, the
pain in his head had in a measure been forgotten,
but it had come back this morning with redoubled force,
and the veins upon his forehead looked almost like
bursting with their pressure of feverish blood.
Hugh had never been sick in his life, and he did not
think it possible for him to be so now, so he tried
hard to forget the giddy, half blinding pain warning
him of danger, and after forcing himself to sip a
little coffee in which he would indulge this morning,
he ordered Claib to bring out the covered buggy, as
he was going up to Lexington.

CHAPTER XVIII

MEETING OF ALICE AND HUGH

Page 85

Could ’Lina have seen Hugh that morning as he
emerged from a fashionable tailor’s shop, she
would scarcely have recognized him. The hour passed
rapidly away, and its close found Hugh waiting at the
terminus of the Lexington and Cincinnati Railroad.
He did not have to wait there long ere a wreath of
smoke in the distance heralded the approach of the
train, and in a moment the broad platform was swarming
with passengers, conspicuous among whom were an old
lady and a young, both entire strangers, as was evinced
by their anxiety to know where to go.

“There are ours,” the young lady said,
pointing to a huge pile of trunks, distinctly marked
“A.J.,” as she held out her checks in her
ungloved hand.

Hugh noticed the hand, saw that it was very small
and white and fat, but the face he could not see,
and he looked in vain for the magnificent hair about
which even his mother had waxed eloquent, and which
was now put plainly back, so that not a vestige of
it was visible. Still Hugh felt sure that this
was Alice Johnson, so sure that when he had ascertained
the hotel where she would wait for the Frankfort train,
he followed on, and entering the back parlor, the
door of which was partly closed, sat down as if he,
too, were a traveler, waiting for the train.

Meantime, in the room adjoining, Alice, for it was
she, divested herself of her dusty wrappings, and
taking out her combs and brushes, began to arrange
her hair, talking the while to Densie, reclining on
the sofa.

It would seem that Alice’s own luxuriant tresses
suggested her first remark, for she said to Densie:
“That Miss Worthington has beautiful hair, so
black, so glossy, and so wavy, too. I wonder she
never curls it. It looks as if she might.”

Densie did not know. It had struck her as singular
taste, unless it were done to conceal a scar, or something
of that kind.

“I did not like that girl,” she said,
“and still she interested me more than any person
I ever met. I never went near her without experiencing
a strange sensation, neither could I keep from watching
her continually, although I knew as well as you that
it annoyed her, Alice,” and Densie lowered her
voice almost to a whisper, “I cannot account
for it, but I had queer fancies about that girl.
Try now and bring her distinctly to your mind.
Did you ever see any one whom she resembled; any other
eyes like hers?” and Densie’s own fierce,
wild orbs flashed inquiringly upon Alice, who could
not remember a face like ’Lina Worthington’s.

“I did not like her eyes much,” she said;
“they were too intensely black, too much like
coals of fire, when they flashed angrily on that poor
Lulu, who evidently was not well posted in the duties
of a waiting maid, auntie,” and Alice’s
voice was lowered, too. “If mother had not
so decided, I should shrink from being an inmate of
Mrs. Washington’s family. I like her very
much, but ’Lina—­I am afraid I shall
not get on with her:”

Page 86

“I know you won’t. I honor your judgment,”
was Hugh’s mental comment, while Alice went
on:

“And what she told me of her brother was not
calculated to impress me favorably.”

Nervously Hugh’s hands grasped each other, and
he could distinctly hear the beating of his heart
as he leaned forward so as not to lose a single word.

“She seemed trying to prepare me for him by
telling how rough he was; how little he cared for
etiquette; and how constantly he mortified her with
his uncouth manners.”

Alice did not hear the sigh of pain or see the mournful
look which stole over Hugh’s face. She
did not even suspect his presence, and she went on
to speak of Spring Bank, wondering if Hugh would be
there before his mother returned, half hoping he would
not, as she rather dreaded meeting him, although she
meant to like him if she could.

Alice’s long, bright hair, was arranged at last,
and the soft curls fell about her face, giving to
it the same look it had worn in childhood—­the
look which was graven on Hugh’s heart, as with
a pencil of fire; the look he never had forgotten
through all the years which had come and gone since
first it shone on him; the look he had never hoped
to see again, so sure was he that it had long been
quenched by the waters of Lake Erie. Alice’s
face was turned fully toward him. Through the
open window at her back the August sunlight streamed,
falling on her chestnut hair, and tinging it with
the yellow gleam which Hugh remembered so well.
For an instant the long lashes shaded the fair round
cheek, and then were uplifted, disclosing the eyes
of lustrous blue, which, seen but once, could never
be mistaken, and Hugh was not mistaken. One look
of piercing scrutiny at the face unconsciously confronting
him, one mighty throb, which seemed to bear away his
very life, one rapid passage of his hand before his
eyes to sweep away the mist, if mist there were, and
then Hugh knew the grave had given up its dead, mourned
for so long as only he could mourn. She was not
lost. Some friendly hand had saved her; some
arm had borne her to the shore.

Golden Hair had come back to him, but, alas, prejudiced
against him. She hoped he might be gone.
She would be happier if he never crossed her path.
“And I never, never will,” Hugh thought,
as with one farewell glance at her dazzling beauty,
he staggered noiselessly from the room, and sought
a small outer court, whose locality he knew, and where
he could be alone to think.

“Oh, Adaline,” he murmured, “what
made you so cruel to me? I would not have served
you so.”

There was a roll of wheels before the door, and Hugh
knew by the sound that it was the carriage for the
cars. She was going. They would never meet
again, Hugh said, and she would never know that the
youth who saved her life was the same for whose coming
they would wait and watch in vain at Spring Bank—­the
Hugh for whom his mother would weep a while; and for
whose dark fate even Ad might feel a little sorry.
She was not wholly depraved—­she had some
sisterly feeling, and his loss would waken it to life.
They would appreciate him after he was gone, and the
poor heart which had known so little love throbbed
joyfully, as Hugh thought of being loved at last even
by the selfish ’Lina.

Page 87

Meantime Alice and Densie proceeded on their way to
the Big Spring station, where Colonel Tiffton was
waiting for them, according to his promise. There
was a shadow in the colonel’s good-humored face,
and a shadow in his heart. His idol, Nellie,
was very, very sick, while added to this was the terrible
certainty that he and he alone must pay that $10,000
note on which he had foolishly put his name, because
Harney had preferred it. He was talking with
Harney when the cars came up, and the villain, while
expressing regret that the colonel should be compelled
to pay so much for what he never received, had said,
with a relentless smile: “But it’s
not my fault, you know. I can’t afford to
lose it.”

From that moment the colonel felt he was a ruined
man, but he would not allow himself to appear at all
discomposed.

“Wait a while,” he said; “do nothing
till my Nell lives or dies,” and with a sigh
as he thought how much dearer to him was his youngest
daughter than all the farms in Woodford, he went forward
to meet Alice, just appearing upon the platform.

The colonel explained to Alice why she must go to
Spring Bank, adding, by way of consolation, that she
would not be quite as lonely now Hugh was at home.

“Hugh at home!” and Alice shrank back
in dismay, feeling for a moment that she could not
go there.

But there was no alternative, and after a few tears,
which, she could not repress, she said, timidly:

“What is this Hugh? What kind of a man,
I mean?”

She could not expect the colonel to say anything bad
of him, but she was not prepared for his frank response.

“The likeliest chap in Kentucky. Nothing
dandified about him, to be sure. Wears his trouser
legs in his boots as often as any way, and don’t
stand about the very latest cut of his coat, but he’s
got a heart bigger than an ox—­yes, big
as ten oxen! I’d trust him with my life,
and know it was just as safe as his own. You’ll
like Hugh—­Nell does.”

The colonel never dreamed of the comfort his words
gave Alice, or how they changed her feelings with
regard to one whom she had so dreaded to meet.

“There ’tis; we’re almost there,”
the colonel said at last, as they turned off from
the highway, and leaning forward Alice caught sight
of the roofs and dilapidated chimneys of Spring Bank.
“’Taint quite as fixey as Yankee houses,
that’s a fact, but we that own niggers never
do have things so smarted up,” the colonel said,
guessing how the contrast must affect Alice, who felt
so desolate and homesick as she drew up in front of
what, for a time at least, was to be her home.

“Where is Hugh?” Alice asked.

Aunt Eunice would not say he had gone to Lexington
for the sake, perhaps, of seeing her, so she replied:

Page 88

“He went to town this morning, but he’ll
be back pretty soon. He has done his best to
make it pleasant for you, and I do believe he doted
on your coming after he got a little used to thinking
about it. You’ll like Hugh when you get
accustomed to him. There, try to go to sleep,”
and kind Aunt Eunice bustled from the room just as
poor Densie, who had been entirely overlooked, entered
it, together with Aunt Chloe. The old negress
was evidently playing the hostess to Densie, for she
was talking quite loud, and all about “Mas’r
Hugh.” “Pity he wasn’t thar,
’twould seem so different; ’tain’t
de same house without him. You’ll like Mas’r
Hugh,” and she, too, glided from the room.

Was this the password at Spring Bank, “You’ll
like Mas’r Hugh?” It would seem so, for
when at last Hannah brought up the waffles and tea,
which Aunt Eunice had prepared, she set down her tray,
and after a few inquiries concerning Alice’s
head, which was now aching sadly, she, too, launched
forth into a panegyric on Mas’r Hugh, ending,
as the rest had done, “You’ll like Mas’r
Hugh.”

CHAPTER XIX

ALICE AND MUGGINS

Had an angel appeared suddenly to the blacks at Spring
Bank they would not have been more surprised or delighted
than they were with Alice when she came down to breakfast,
looking so beautiful in her muslin wrapper, with a
simple white blossom and geranium leaf twined among
her flowing curls, and an expression of content upon
her childish face, which said that she had resolved
to make the best of the place to which Providence
had so clearly led her for some wise purpose of his
own. She had arisen early and explored the premises
in quest of the spots of sunshine which she knew were
there as well as elsewhere, and she had found them,
too, in the grand old elms and maples which shaded
the wooden building, in the clean, grassy lawn and
the running brook, in the well-kept garden of flowers,
and in the few choice volumes arranged in the old bookcase
at one end of the hall. Who reads those books,
her favorites, every one of them? Not ’Lina,
most assuredly, for Alice’s reminiscences of
her were not of the literary kind; nor yet Mrs. Worthington,
kind, gentle creature as she seemed to be. Who
then but Hugh could have pored over those pages?
And Alice felt a thrill of joy as she felt there was
at least one bond of sympathy between them. There
was no Bible upon the shelves, no religious book of
any kind, if we except a work of infidel Tom Paine,
at sight of which Alice recoiled as from a viper.
Could Hugh believe in Tom Paine? She hoped not,
and with a sigh she was turning from the corner, when
the patter of little naked feet was heard upon the
stairs, and a bright mulatto child, apparently seven
or eight years old, appeared, her face expressive
of the admiration with which she regarded Alice, who
asked her name.

Curtseying very low, the child replied:

Page 89

“I dunno, missus; I ’spec’s I done
lost ’em, ’case heap of a while ago, ’fore
you’re born, I reckon, they call me Leshie, but
Mas’r Hugh done nickname me Muggins, and every
folks do that now. You know Mas’r Hugh?
He done rared when he read you’s comin’;
do this way with his boot, ’By George, Ad will
sell the old hut yet without ‘sultin’ me,’”
and the little darky’s fist came down upon the
window sill in apt imitation of her master.

A crimson flush overspread Alice’s face as she
wondered if it were possible that the arrangements
concerning her coming there had been made without
reference to Hugh’s wishes.

“It may be, he was away,” she sighed;
then feeling an intense desire to know more, and being
only a woman and mortal, she said to Muggins walking
around her in circles, with her fat arms folded upon
her bosom. “Your master did not know I
was coming till he returned from New Orleans and found
his mother’s letter?”

“Who tole you dat ar?” and Muggins’
face was perfectly comical in its bewilderment at
what she deemed Alice’s foreknowledge. “But
dat’s so, dat is. I hear Aunt Chloe say
so, and how’t was right mean in Miss ’Lina.
I hate Miss ‘Lina! Phew-ew!” and Muggins’
face screwed itself into a look of such perfect disgust
that Alice could not forbear laughing outright.

“You should not hate any one, my child,”
she said, while Muggins rejoined:

“I can’t help it—­none of us
can; she’s so—­mean—­and
so—­so—­you mustn’t never
tell, ’case Aunt Chloe get my rags if you do—­but
she’s so low-flung, Claib say. She hain’t
any bizzens orderin’ us around nuther, and I
will hate her!”

“But, Muggins, the Bible teaches us to love
those who treat us badly, who are mean, as you say.”

“Who’s he?” and Muggins looked up
quickly. “I never hearn tell of him afore,
or, yes I has. Thar’s an old wared-out book
in Mas’r Hugh’s chest, what he reads in
every night, and oncet when I axes him what was it,
he say, ‘It’s a Bible, Mug.’
Dat’s what he calls me for short; Mug!”

“Well,” Alice said, “be a good girl,
Muggins. God will love you if you do. Do
you ever pray?”

“More times I do, and more times when I’se
sleepy I don’t,” was Muggins’ reply.

Here was a spot where Alice might do good; this half-heathen,
but sprightly, African child needed her, and she began
already to get an inkling of her mission to Kentucky.
She was pleased with Muggins, and suffered the little
dusky hands to caress her curls as long as they pleased,
while she questioned her of the bookcase and its contents,
whose was it, ’Lina’s or Hugh’s?

Page 90

“Did he?” and Alice spoke with great animation,
for she had supposed that ’Lina’s, or
at least Mrs. Worthington’s hands had been there.

But it was Hugh, all Hugh, and in spite of what Muggins
had said concerning his aversion to her coming there,
she felt a great desire to see him. She could
understand in part why he should be angry at not having
been consulted, but he was over that, she was sure
from what Aunt Eunice said, and if he were not, it
behooved her to try her best to remove any wrong impression
he might have formed of her. “He shall like
me,” she thought; “not as he must like
that golden-haired maiden whose existence this sprite
of a negro has discovered, but as a friend, or sister,”
and a softer light shone in Alice’s blue eyes,
as she foresaw in fancy Hugh gradually coming to like
her, to be glad that she was there, and to miss her
when she was gone.

CHAPTER XX

POOR HUGH

Could Hugh have known the feelings with which Alice
Johnson already regarded him, and the opinion she
had expressed to Muggins, it would perhaps have stilled
the fierce throbbings of his heart, which sent the
hot blood so swiftly through his veins, and made him
from the first delirious. They had found him
in the quiet court, just after the sunsetting, and
his uncovered head was already wet with the falling
dew, and with the profuse perspiration induced by
his long, heavy sleep. They could not arouse
him to a distinct consciousness as to where he was
or what had happened. He only talked of Ad and
the Golden Haired, asking that they would take him
anywhere, where neither could ever see him again.
He was well known at the hotel, and measures were immediately
taken for apprising his family of the sudden illness,
and for removing him to Spring Bank as soon as possible.

Breakfast was not yet over at Spring Bank, and Aunt
Eunice was just wondering what could have become of
Hugh, when from her position near the window she discovered
a horseman riding across the lawn at a rate which
betokened some important errand. Alice spied him,
too, and the same thought flashed over both herself
and Aunt Eunice. “Something had befallen
Hugh.”

Alice was the first upon the piazza, where she stood
waiting till the rider came up, his horse covered
with foam, and himself flurried and excited.

“Are you Miss Worthington?” he asked,
doffing his soft hat, and feeling a thrill of wonder
at sight of her marvelous beauty.

“Miss Worthington is not at home,” she
said, going down the steps and advancing closer to
him, “but I can take your message. Is anything
the matter with Mr. Worthington?”

Aunt Eunice had now joined her, and listened breathlessly
while the young man told of Hugh’s illness,
which threatened to be the prevailing fever.

“They were bringing him home,” he said—­“were
now on the way, and he had ridden in advance to prepare
them for his coming.”

Page 91

“She’d felt it all along. She knew
dem dogs hadn’t howled for nothing, nor them
deathwatches ticked in the wall. Mas’r Hugh
was gwine to die, and all the blacks would be sold—­down
the river, most likely, if Harney didn’t get
’em,” and crouching by the kitchen fire
old Chloe bewailed the calamity she knew was about
to befall them.

Alice alone was calm and capable of action. A
room must be prepared, and somebody must direct, but
to find the somebody was a most difficult matter.
Chloe couldn’t, Hannah couldn’t, Aunt Eunice
couldn’t, and consequently it all devolved upon
herself.

They carried Hugh to the room designated by Densie,
and into which he went very unwillingly.

It was not his den, he said, drawing back with a bewildered
look; his was hot, and close, and dingy, while this
was nice and cool—­a room such as women
had—­there must be a mistake, and he begged
of them to take him away.

“No, no, my poor boy. This is right; Miss
Johnson said you must come here just because it is
cool and nice. You’ll get well so much faster,”
and Aunt Eunice’s tears dropped on Hugh’s
flushed face.

“Miss Johnson!” and the wild eyes looked
up eagerly at her. “Who is she? Oh,
yes, I know, I know,” and a moan came from his
lips as he whispered: “Does she know I’ve
come? Does it make her hate me worse to see me
in such a plight? Ho, Aunt Eunice, put your ear
down close while I tell you something. Ad said—­you
know Ad—­she said I was—­I was—­I
can’t tell you what she said for this buzzing
in my head. Am I very sick, Aunt Eunice?”
and about the chin there was a quivering motion, which
betokened a ray of consciousness, as the brown eyes
scanned the kind, motherly face bending over him.

“Yes, Hugh, you are very sick,” and Aunt
Eunice’s tears dropped upon the face of her
boy, so fearfully changed since yesterday.

He wiped them away himself, and looked inquiringly
at her.

“Am I so sick that it makes you cry? Is
it the fever I’ve got?”

“Yes, Hugh, the fever,” and Aunt Eunice
bowed her face upon his burning hands.

For a moment he lay unconscious, then raising himself
up, he fixed his eyes piercingly upon her, and whispered,
hoarsely:

“Aunt Eunice, I shall die! I have never
been sick in my life; and the fever goes hard with
such. I shall surely die. It’s been
days in coming on, and I thought to fight it off;
I don’t want to die. I’m not prepared.”

He was growing terribly excited now, and Aunt Eunice
hailed the coming of the doctor with delight.
Hugh knew him, offering his pulse and putting out
his tongue of his own accord. The doctor counted
the rapid pulse, numbering even then 130 per minute,
noted the rolling eyeballs and the dilation of the
pupils, felt the fierce throbbing of the swollen veins
upon the temple, and then gravely shook his head.
Half conscious, half delirious, Hugh watched him nervously,
until the great fear at his heart found utterance
in words.

Page 92

“Must I die?”

“We hope not. We’ll do what we can
to save you. Don’t think of dying, my boy,”
was the physician’s reply, as he turned to Aunt
Eunice, and gave out the medicine, which must be most
carefully administered.

Too much agitated to know just what he said, Aunt
Eunice listened, as one who heard not, noticing which,
the doctor said:

“You are not the right one to take these directions.
Is there nobody here less nervous than yourself?
Who was that young lady standing by the door when
I came in? The one in white, I mean, with such
a quantity of curls?”

“Miss Johnson—­our visitor. She
can’t do anything,” Aunt Eunice replied,
trying to compose herself enough to know what she was
doing.

But the doctor thought differently. Something
of a physiognomist, he had been struck with the expression
of Alice’s face, and felt sure that she would
be more efficient aid than Aunt Eunice herself.
“I’ll speak to her,” he said, stepping
to the hall. But Alice was gone. She had
stood by the sickroom door long enough to hear Hugh’s
impassioned words concerning his probable death—­long
enough to hear him ask that she might pray for him;
and then she stole away to where no ear, save that
of God, could hear the earnest prayer that Hugh Worthington
might live—­or that dying, there might be
given him a space in which to grasp the faith, without
which the grave is dark indeed.

Meantime, the Hugh for whom the prayer was made had
fallen into a heavy sleep, and Aunt Eunice noiselessly
left the room, meeting in the hall with Alice, who
asked permission to go in and sit by him at least until
he awoke. Aunt Eunice consented, and with noiseless
footsteps Alice advanced into the darkened room, and
after standing still for a moment to assure herself
that Hugh was really sleeping, stole softly to his
bedside and bent down to look at him, starting quickly
at the strong resemblance to somebody seen before.
Who was it? Where was it? she asked herself,
her brain a labyrinth of bewilderment as she tried
in vain to recall the time or place where a face like
this reposing upon the pillow before her had met her
view. Suddenly she remembered Irving Stanley,
and that between him and Hugh there was a relationship,
and then she knew it was the likeness to Irving Stanley,
which she so plainly traced. Alice hardly cared
to acknowledge it, but as she looked at Hugh she felt
that his was really the handsomer, the more attractive
face of the two. It certainly was, as he lay
there asleep, his long eyelashes resting upon his
flushed cheek, his dark hair curling in soft rings
about his high, white brow, his rich, brown beard
glistening with perspiration, and his lips slightly
apart, showing a row of even teeth.

There were others than Alice praying for Hugh that
summer afternoon, for Muggins had gone from the brook
to the cornfield, startling Adah with the story of
Hugh’s sickness, and then launching out into
a glowing description of the new miss, “with
her white gown and curls as long as Rocket’s
tail.”

Page 93

“She talked with God, too,” she said,
“like what you does, Miss Adah. She axes
Him to make Mas’r Hugh well, and He will, won’t
He?”

“I trust so,” Adah answered, her own heart
going silently up to the Giver of life and health,
asking, if it were possible, that her noble friend
might be spared.

Old Sam, too, with streaming eyes, stole out to his
bethel by the spring, and prayed for the dear “Massah
Hugh” lying so still at Spring Bank, and insensible
to all the prayers going up in his behalf.

How terrible that deathlike stupor was, and the physician,
when later in the afternoon he came again, shook his
head sadly.

“I’d rather see him rave till it took
ten men to hold him,” he said, feeling the wiry
pulse, which was now beyond his count.

“Is there nothing that will arouse him?”
Alice asked, “no name of one he loves more than
another?”

The doctor answered “no; love for womankind,
save as he feels it for his mother or his sister,
is unknown to Hugh Worthington.”

Alice said softly, lest she should be heard:

“Hugh, shall I call Golden Haired?”

“Yes, yes, oh, yes,” and the heavy lids
unclosed at once, while the eyes, in which there was
no ray of consciousness, looked wistfully into the
lustrous blue orbs above him.

“Are you the Golden Haired?” and he laid
his hand caressingly over the shining tresses just
within his reach.

Alice was about to reply, when an exclamation from
those near the window, and the heavy tramp of horse’s
feet, arrested her attention, and drew her also to
the window, just as a most beautiful gray, saddled
but riderless, came dashing over the gate, and tearing
across the yard, until he stood panting at the door.
Rocket had come home for the first time since his
master had led him away!

Hearing of Hugh’s illness, the old colonel had
ridden over to inquire how he was, and fearing lest
it might be difficult to get Rocket away if once he
stood in the familiar yard, he had dismounted in the
woods, and fastening him to a tree, walked the remaining
distance. But Rocket was not thus to be cheated.
Ever since turning into the well-remembered lane he
had seemed like a new creature, pricking up his ears,
and, dancing and curvetting daintily along, as he
had been wont to do on public occasions when Hugh
was his rider instead of the fat colonel. In this
state of feeling it was quite natural that he should
resent being tied to a tree, and as if divining why
it was done, he broke his halter the moment the colonel
was out of sight, and went galloping through the woods
like lightning, never for an instant slackening his
speed until he stood at Spring Bank door, calling,
as well as he could call, for Hugh, who heard and
recognized that call.

Throwing his arms wildly over his head, he raised
himself in bed, and exclaimed joyfully:

Page 94

“That’s he! that’s Rocket!
I knew he’d come. I’ve only been waiting
for him to start on that long journey. Ho!
Aunt Eunice! Pack my clothes. I’m
going away, where I shan’t mortify Ad any more.
Hurry up. Rocket is growing impatient. Don’t
you hear him pawing the turf? I’m coming,
my boy, I’m coming!” and he attempted
to leap upon the floor, but the doctor’s strong
arm held him down, while Alice, whose voice alone he
heeded, strove to quiet him.

“I wouldn’t go away to-day,” she
said soothingly. “Some other time will
do as well, and Rocket can wait.”

“Will you stay with me?” Hugh asked.

“Yes, I’ll stay,” was Alice’s
reply.

“I’m glad he’s roused up,”
the doctor said, “though I don’t like the
way his fever increases,” and Alice knew by
the expression of his face that there was but little
hope, determining not to leave him during the night.

Densie or Aunt Eunice might sleep on the lounge, she
said, but the care, the responsibility shall be hers.
To this the doctor willingly acceded, thinking that
Hugh was safer with her than any one else. Exchanging
the white wrapper she had worn through the day for
one more suitable, Alice, after an hour’s rest
in her own room, returned to Hugh, who had missed
her sadly, and who knew the moment she came back to
him, even though his eyes were closed, and he seemed
to be half asleep.

“Mas’r Hugh won’t die,” and
Muuggins’ faith came to the rescue, throwing
a ray of hope into the darkness. “Miss Alice
axed God to spar’ him, and so did I; now He
will, won’t He, miss?” and she turned to
Adah, who, with Sam, had just come up to Spring Bank,
and hearing voices in the kitchen had entered there
first. “Say, Miss Adah, won’t God
cure Mas’r Hugh—­’ca’se
I axed Him oncet?”

“You must pray more than once, child; pray many,
many times,” was Adah’s reply; whereupon
Mug looked aghast, for the idea of praying a second
time had never entered her brain.

Still, if she must, why, she must, and she stole quietly
from the kitchen. But it was now too dark to
go down in the woods by the running brook, and remembering
Alice had said that God was everywhere, she first
cast around her a timid glance, as if fearful she should
see Him, and then kneeling in the grass, wet with
the heavy night dew, the little negro girl prayed
again for Master Hugh, starting as she prayed at the
sound which met her ear, and which came from the spot
where Rocket still was standing by the block, waiting
for his master.

Claib had offered him food and offered him drink,
but both had been refused, and opening the stable
door so that he could go in whenever he chose, Claib
had left him there alone, solitary watcher of the night,
waiting for poor Hugh.

Returning to the house, Mug stole upstairs to the
door of the sickroom, where Alice was now alone with
Hugh.

He was awake, and for an instant seemed to know her,
for he attempted to speak, but the rational words
died on his lips, and he only moaned, as if in distress.

Page 95

“What is it?” Alice said, bending over
him.

“Are you the Golden Haired?” he asked
again, as her curls swept his face.

“Who is Golden Hair?” Alice asked, and
instantly the great tears gathered in Hugh’s
dark eyes as he replied:

“Don’t say who is she, but who was she.
I’ve never told a living being before.
Golden Hair was a bright angel who crossed my path
one day, and then disappeared forever, leaving behind
the sweetest memory a mortal man ever possessed.
She’s dead, Chestnut Locks,” and he twined
one of Alice’s curls around his finger.
“It’s weak for men to cry, but I have
cried many a night for her, when the clouds were crying,
too, and I heard against my window the rain which
I knew was falling upon her little grave.”

He was growing rather excited, and thinking he had
talked too much, Alice was trying to quiet him, when
the door opened softly and Adah herself came in.
Bowing politely to Alice she advanced to Hugh’s
bedside, and bending over him spoke his name.
He knew her, and turning to Alice said: “This
is Adah; you will like each other; you are much alike.”

For an instant the two young girls gazed at each other
as if trying to account for the familiar look each
saw in the other’s face. Adah was the first
to remember, and when at last Hugh was asleep she unclasped
from her neck the slender chain she had worn so long,
and passing the locket to Alice, asked if she ever
saw it before.

“Yes, oh, yes, it’s I, it’s mine,
though not a very natural one. I never knew where
I lost it. Where did you find it?” and opening
the other side Alice looked to see if the lock of
hair was safe.

Adah explained how it came into her possession, asking
if Alice remembered the circumstances.

“Yes, and I thought of you so often, never dreaming
that we should meet here as we have. You were
so sick then, and I pitied you so much. Your
husband was gone, you said. Was it long ere he
came back?”

“He never came back,” and the great brown
eyes filled with tears.

“Never came? Do you think him dead?”

“No, no! oh, no! He’s—­Oh,
Miss Johnson, I’ll tell you some time. Nobody
here knows but Hugh how I was deceived, but I’ll
tell you. I can trust you,” and Adah involuntarily
laid her head in Alice’s lap, sobbing bitterly.

In the hall without there was a shuffling step which
Adah knew was Sam’s, and remembering the conversation
once held with him concerning that golden locket,
whose original Sam was positive he had seen, Alice
waited curious for his entrance. With hobbling
steps the old man came in, scarcely noticing either
of them, so intent was he upon the figure lying so
still and helpless before him.

“Massah Hugh, my poor, dear Massah Hugh,”
he cried, bending over his young master. “I
wish ‘twas Sam had all de pain an’ all
de aches you feels. I’d b’ar it willingly,
massah, I would. Dear massah, kin you hear Sam
talkin’ to you?”

Page 96

Sam had turned away from Hugh, and with his usual
politeness was about making his obeisance to Alice,
when the words, “Your servant, miss,”
were changed into a howl of joy, and falling upon his
knees, he clutched at Alice’s dress, exclaiming:

“Now de Lord be praised, I’se found her
again. I’se found Miss Ellis, I has, an’
I feels like singin’ ‘Glory Hallelujah.’
Does ye know me, lady? Does you ’member
shaky ole darky, way down in Virginny? You teached
him de way, an’ he’s tried to walk dar
ever sence. Say, does you know ole Sam?”
and the dim eyes looked eagerly into Alice’s
face.

She did remember him, and for a moment seemed speechless
with surprise, then, stooping beside him, she took
his shriveled hand and pressed it between her own,
asking how he came there, and if Hugh had always been
his master.

“You ’splain, Miss Adah. You speaks
de dictionary better than Sam,” the old man
said, and thus appealed to, Adah told what she knew
of Sam’s coming into Hugh’s possession.

“He buy me just for kindness, nothing else,
for Sam ain’t wo’th a dime, but Massah
Hugh so good. I prays for him every night, and
I asks God to bring you and him together. Miss
Ellis will like Massah Hugh much, so much, and Massah
Hugh like Miss Ellis. Oh, I’se happy chile
to-night. I prays wid a big heart, ’case
I sees Miss Ellis again,” and in his great joy
Sam kissed the hem of Alice’s dress, crouching
at her feet and regarding her with a look almost idolatrous.

They watched together that night, attending Hugh so
carefully that when the morning broke and the physician
came, he pronounced the symptoms so much better that
there was much hope, he said, if the faithful nursing
were continued.

CHAPTER XXI

ALICE AND ADAH

At Alice’s request, Adah and Sam stayed altogether
at Spring Bank, but Alice was the ruling power—­Alice,
the one whom Chloe and Claib consulted; one concerning
the farm, and the other concerning the kitchen—­Alice,
to whom Aunt Eunice looked for counsel, and Densie
for comfort—­Alice, who remembered all the
doctor’s directions, taking the entire charge
of Hugh’s medicines herself—­and Alice,
who wrote to Mrs. Worthington, apprising her of Hugh’s
serious illness. They hoped he was not dangerous,
she said, but he was very sick, and Mrs. Worthington
would do well to come at once. She did not mention
’Lina, but the idea never crossed her mind that
a sister could stay away from choice when a brother
was so ill; and it was with unfeigned surprise that
she one morning saw Mrs. Worthington and Lulu alighting
at the gate, but no ’Lina with them.

“She was so happy at Saratoga,” Mrs. Worthington
said, when a little over the first flurry of her arrival.
“So happy, too, with Mrs. Richards that she
could not tear herself away, unless her mother should
find Hugh positively dangerous, in which case she
should, of course, come at once.”

Page 97

This was the mother’s charitable explanation,
made with a bitter sigh as she recalled ’Lina’s
heartless anger when the letter was received, as if
Hugh were to blame, as, indeed, ’Lina seemed
to think he was.

Meantime Alice, in her own room, was reading ’Lina’s
note, containing a most glowing description of the
delightful time she was having at Saratoga, and how
hard it would be to leave.

“I know dear Hugh is in good hands,” she
wrote, “and it is so pleasant here that I really
do want to stay a little longer. Pray write to
me just how Hugh is, and if I must come home.
What a delightful lady that Mrs. Richards is—­not
one bit stiff as I can see. I don’t know
what people mean to call her proud. She has promised,
if mamma will leave me here, to be my chaperon, and
it’s possible we may visit New York together,
so as to be there when the prince arrives. Won’t
that be grand? She talks so much of you that
sometimes I’m really jealous. Perhaps I
may go to Terrace Hill before I return, but rather
hope not, it makes me fidgety to think of meeting
the Misses Richards, though, of course, I know I shall
like them, particularly Anna. Oh, I most forgot!
Irving is here yet, and has a sister, Mrs. Ellsworth,
with him now. She is very elegant, and very much
admired. Tell Adah I heard Mrs. Ellsworth say
she wished she could find some young person as governess
for her little girl, and kind of companion for her.
I did not speak of Adah, but I thought of her, knowing
she desired some such situation. She might write
to Mrs. Ellsworth here, but I’d rather she should
not refer to me as having known her. You see
Mrs. Ellsworth would directly inquire about her antecedents,
and to a stranger it would not sound well that she
came to us one stormy night with that child, whose
father we know nothing about, and if I told the truth,
as I always try to do, I should have to tell this.
So it will be better for Adah not to know us, even
if she should come to Mrs. Ellsworth. You will
understand me, I am sure, and believe that I am actuated
by the kindest of motives. She can direct to
Mrs. Julia Ellsworth, Union Hall, Saratoga Springs.
By the way, tell mother not to forget that dress.
She’ll know what you mean.

“Mr. Stanley seemed quite blue after you went
away. I should not be surprised to hear of his
being at Spring Bank some day. Isn’t it
funny that you had to go right there? Perhaps
it’s as well for you that Hugh is sick.
You will got a better impression. Au revoir.”

Not a word was there in this letter of the doctor,
but Alice understood it all the same. He was
the attraction which kept the selfish girl from her
brother’s side. “May she be happy
with him, if, indeed, he has a right to win her,”
was Alice’s mental comment, shuddering as she
recalled the time when she was pleased with the handsome
doctor, and silently thanking God, who had saved her
from much sorrow. Hearing Mrs. Worthington in
the hall, and remembering what ’Lina said concerning
the dress, she stepped to the door and delivered the
message, wondering that Mrs. Worthington should seem
so confounded, and stammer so, as she turned to Adah,
just coming up the stairs, and said:

Page 98

“Have you ever done anything with that old muslin
’Lina gave you?”

“Never till to-day,” Adah replied; “when
it occurred to me that if this hot weather lasted,
I might find it comfortable, provided I could fix
it, so I sent Mug for it, and she is ripping the waist.”

Mrs. Worthington was not a good dissembler, and her
next question was:

“Did you find anything in the pocket?”

“Yes, my letter, written weeks ago. Your
daughter must have forgotten it. I intrusted
it to her care the day Miss Tiffton called.”

Adah was just thinking of speaking freely to Alice
Johnson concerning her future course, when Mrs. Worthington
met her in the upper hall.

“I’ll go to her now,” she said,
as Mrs. Worthington left her, and knocking timidly
at Alice’s door, she asked permission to enter.

“Oh, certainly, I have something to tell you,”
Alice said, motioning her to a chair, and sitting
down beside her. “Miss Worthington sent
me a note in which she speaks of you.”

“Of me?” and Adah colored slightly.
“I did not know she ever thought of me.
Why did she not come with her mother?”

“She is enjoying herself so much is the reason
she gives, though I fancy there is another more powerful
one. Perhaps the note will enlighten you,”
and Alice passed it to Adah, not so much to show her
how heartless ’Lina was, as to see if in what
she had said of the Richards family there was not
something which Adah would recognize.

That look in Willie’s face had almost grown
to a certainty with Alice, who saw Anna, or Asenath,
or Eudora, and sometimes John himself in every move
of the little fellow. Silently Adah read the note,
her paled cheeks turning scarlet at what ’Lina
had said of herself and Mrs. Ellsworth. The Richards
family were nothing to her. She only seized upon
and treasured up the words “with a child about
whose father we know nothing.” Slowly the
tears gathered in her eyes and finally fell in torrents
as Alice asked:

“What made her cry?”

“Oh, Miss Johnson,” and Adah hid her face
in Alice’s lap, “I’m thinking of
George—­of Willie’s father. Will
he never come back, or the world know that I thought
I was a lawful wife? Yes, and I sometimes believe
so now, or I should surely go wild, Miss Johnson,”
and Adah lifted up her head, disclosing a face which
Alice scarcely recognized, for the strange expression
there. “Miss Johnson, if I knew that George
deliberately planned my ruin under the guise of a
mock marriage, and then when it suited him deserted
me as a toy of which he was tired, I should hate him!—­hate
him!”

“I frighten you, Miss Johnson,” she said,
as she saw how Alice shrank away from the dark eyes
in which there was a fierce, resentful gleam, unlike
sweet Adah Hastings. “I used to frighten
myself when I saw in my eyes the demon which whispered
suicide.”

“Oh, Adah,” said Alice, “you could
not have dreamed that!”

Page 99

“I did,” and Adah spoke sadly now.
“It was kind in God to save me, and I’ve
tried to love Him better since; but there’s something
savage in my nature, something I must have inherited
from one of my parents, and sometimes my heart, which
at first was full of love for George, goes out against
him for his base treachery.”

“And yet you love him still?” Alice said,
as she smoothed the beautiful brown hair.

“I suppose I do. A kind word from him would
bring me back, but will it ever be spoken? Shall
we ever meet again?”

“Where did he go?” Alice asked.

“He went to Europe, so he said.”

There was a voluntary shudder as Alice recalled the
time when Dr. Richards came home from Europe, and
she had been flattered with his attentions.

“I may be unjust to him,” she thought,
then to Adah she said: “As you have told
me your story in part, will you tell me the whole?”

There was no vindictiveness now in Adah’s face,
nothing save a calm, gentle expression such as it
was used to wear, and the soft brown eyes drooped
mournfully beneath the heavy lashes as she told the
story of her wrongs.

“And Hugh?” Alice said. “Why
did you come to him? Had you known him before?”

“Hugh was the other witness, bribed by my guardian
to lend himself a party to the deception! I never
saw him till that night; neither, I think, did George.
My guardian planned the whole.”

“Hugh Worthington is not the man I took him
for,” and Alice spoke bitterly.

“You mistake him,” she cried eagerly.
“My guardian, Mr. Monroe, was pleased with the
young Kentuckian, and led him easily. He coaxed
him to drink a glass of wine, which Hugh says must
have been drugged, for it took away his power to act
as he would otherwise have done, and when in this
condition he consented to whatever Mr. Monroe proposed,
keeping silent while the horrid farce went on.
But he has repented so bitterly, and been so kind
to me and Willie.”

“And your guardian,” interrupted Alice,
“is it not strange that he should have acted
so cruel a part?”

“Yes, that’s the strangest part of all,
and he was so kind to me. I cannot understand
it, or where he is, though I’ve sometimes imagined
he must be dead; or in prison,” and Adah thought
of what Sam had said concerning Sullivan, the negro-stealer.

“What do you mean; why should he be in prison?”
Alice asked, and Adah replied by telling her what
Sam had said, and the reason she had for thinking
Sullivan and her guardian, Monroe, one and the same.

“I too am marked,” and with a quick, nervous
motion, she touched the spot where the blue lines
were faintly visible. “I know not how I
came by it, but it annoys me terribly. Mr. Monroe
knew how I felt about it, and the day before that
marriage he said to me: ’It will disappear
with your children. They will not be marked,’
and Willie isn’t.”

Just then Willie’s voice was heard in the hall,
and Alice admitted him into the room. She kissed
his rosy cheek, and said to Adah: “Do you
know I think he looks like Hugh.”

Page 100

“Yes,” and Adah spoke sadly. “I
know he does, and I am sorry for Hugh’s sake,
as it must annoy him. Neither can I account for
it, for I am certainly nothing to Hugh. But there’s
another look in Willie’s face, his father’s.
Oh, Miss Johnson, George was handsome.”

“Can you describe him, or will it be too painful?”
Alice asked, and Adah told how George Hastings looked,
while Alice’s handy worked nervously together,
for Adah was describing Dr. Richards.

“And you’ve never seen him since, nor
guessed where his proud mother lived?”

“Never, and when only the wrong is remembered,
I think I never care to see or hear from him again.
But the noble, self-denying Hugh! I would almost
die for him; I ask God every day to bring him some
good fortune at last. He will, I know He will,
and Hugh shall yet—­”

She stopped short, struck with an idea which had never
before entered her mind. Hugh and Alice!
Oh, if that could be.

“Why do you look at me?” Alice asked,
as Adah sat drinking in the dazzling beauty which
she wished might one day shine for Hugh.

“I am thinking how beautiful you are, and wondering
if you ever loved any one; did you?”

“Not like you,” Alice answered frankly.
“When a little girl of thirteen I owed my life
to a youth with many characteristics like Hugh Worthington.
I liked him, and wanted so much to find him, but could
not. Then I grew to womanhood, and another crossed
my path, well skilled in finding every avenue to a
maiden’s heart. I did not love him.
I am glad that I did not, for he was unworthy of my
love; but I fancied him a while, and my heart did
ache a little when mother on her deathbed talked to
me against him. It was my money he wanted most,
and when he thought I had none, he left me, saying
as I heard, that I ’was a nice-ish kind of girl,
rather good-looking, but too blue for him.’”

“And the other, the boy like Hugh, have you
met him again?” Adah asked, feeling a little
disappointed, when Alice replied:

“Once, I am very sure.”

Alice heard the faint sigh, and hope died out for
Hugh. Poor Hugh! Alice was thinking of him,
too, and said at last: “Was Rocket sold
to Colonel Tiffton for debt?”

“Yes, for ’Lina’s debts, contracted
at Harney’s. I’ve heard of his boasting
that Hugh should yet be compelled to see him galloping
down the pike upon his idol.”

“He never shall!” and Alice spoke under
her breath, asking further questions concerning the
sale of Colonel Tiffton’s house, and now much
Mosside was worth.

Adah did not know. She was only posted with regard
to Rocket, who was pawned for five hundred dollars.
“Once I insanely hoped that I might help redeem
him—­that God would find a work for me to
do—­and my heart was so happy for a moment.”

“What did you think of doing?” Alice asked,
glancing at the delicate young girl, who looked so
unaccustomed to toil of any kind.

Page 101

“I thought to be a governess or waiting maid,”
and Adah’s lip began to quiver. Then she
told how her letter had been carelessly forgotten.

“Do you remember the address?” and Alice
waited curiously for the answer.

“Yes, ‘A.E.R. Snowdon.’
You came from Snowdon Miss Johnson, and I’ve
wanted so much to ask if you knew ‘A.E.R.,’
but have never dared talk freely with you till to-day.”

Alice was confounded. Surely the leadings of
Providence were too plainly evident to be unnoticed.
There was a reason why Adah Hastings must go to Anna
Richards, and Alice hastened to reply: “‘A.E.R.’
is no less a person than Anna Richards whose mother
and brother are now at Saratoga.”

“Oh, I can’t go there. They are too
proud. They would hate me for Willie, and ask
me for his father.”

Very gently Alice talked to her of Snowdon and Anna
Richards, whom Adah was sure to like.

“I’m so glad for your sake that it has
come around at last,” she said. “Will
you write to her to-day, or shall I for you? Perhaps
I had better!”

“Oh, no, I would rather go unannounced—­rather
Miss Anna should like me for my self, if I go,”
and Adah’s voice trembled, for she shrank nervously
from the thought of meeting the Richards family.

If ’Lina liked the old lady, she certainly could
not, and the very thought of these elder sisters,
in all their primness, dismayed and disheartened her.

While this was passing through her mind, she sat twining
Willie’s silken curls around her finger, and
apparently listening to what Alice was now saying
of Dr. Richards; but Alice might as well have talked
to the winds for any impression she made. Adah
was looking far into the future, wondering what it
had in store for her, as if in Anna Richards she would
indeed find the sympathizing friend which Alice said
she would. Gradually, as she thought of Anna,
her heart went out strangely toward her.

“I will go to Miss Richards,” she said
at last; “but I cannot go till Hugh is better,
till he knows and approves. I must take his blessing
with me. Do you think it will be long before he
regains his reason?”

Alice could not tell.

“Do you correspond with Miss Richards?”
Adah suddenly asked.

“No. I will send a note of introduction
by you, though.”

“Please don’t,” and Adah spoke pleadingly.
“I should have to give it if you did, and I’d
rather go by myself. I know it would be better
to have your influence, but it is a fancy of mine
not to say that I ever knew you or any one at Spring
Bank.”

Now it was settled that Adah should go, she felt a
restless, impatient desire to be gone, questioning
the doctor closely with regard to Hugh, who, it seemed
to her, would never awaken from the state of unconsciousness
into which he had fallen, and from which he only rallied
for an instant, just long enough to recognize his mother,
but never Alice or herself, both of whom watched over
him day and night.

Page 102

CHAPTER XXII

WAKING TO CONSCIOUSNESS

The sultry August glided by, and in the warm, still
days of late September Hugh awoke from the sleep which
had so long hung over him. Raising himself upon
his elbow, he glanced around the room. There were
the table, the stand, the mirror, the curtains, the
vases, and the flowers, but what—­did he
see aright, or did his eyes deceive him? and the perspiration
stood thickly about his mouth, as in the bouquet, that
morning arranged, he recognized the gay flowers of
autumn, not such as he had gathered for Alice, delicate
summer flowers, but rich and gorgeous with a later
bloom.

“I must have been sick,” he whispered,
and pressing his hand to his still throbbing head,
he tried to reveal and form into some definite shape
the events which had seemed, and which seemed to him
still, like so many phantoms of the brain.

Was it a dream—­his mother’s tears
upon his face, his mother’s voice calling him
her Hughey boy, his mother’s sobs beside him?
Was it, could it be all a dream that she, the Golden
Haired, had been with him constantly? No that
was not a dream. She did not hate him, else she
had not prayed, and words of thanksgiving were going
up to Golden Hair’s God, when a footstep in
the hall announced the approach of some one.
Alice, perhaps, and Hugh lay very still, with half-shut
eyes, until Muggins, instead of Alice, appeared.

He was asleep, she said, as, standing on tiptoe, she
scanned his face. He was asleep, and in her own
dialect Muggins talked to herself about him as he
lay there so still.

“Nice Mas’r Hugh—­pretty Mas’r
Hugh!” and Mug’s little black hand was
laid caressingly on the face she admired so much.
“I mean to ask God about him, just like I see
Miss Alice do,” she continued, and stealing
to the opposite side of the room, Muggins kneeled down,
and with her face turned toward Hugh, she said:
“If God is hearin’ me, will He please
do all dat Miss Alice ax him ‘bout curin’
Mas’r Hugh.”

This was too much for Hugh. The sight of that
ignorant negro child, kneeling by the window unmanned
him entirely, and hiding his head beneath the sheets,
he sobbed aloud. With a nervous start, Mug arose
from her knees, and stood for an instant gazing in
terror at the trembling of the bedclothes.

“I’ll bet he’s in a fit. I
mean to screech for Miss Alice,” and Muggins
was about darting away, when Hugh’s long arm
caught and held her fast. “Oh, de gracious,
Mas’r Hugh,” she cried, “you skeers
me so. Does you know me, Mas’r Hugh?”
and she took a step toward him.

“Yes, I know you, and I want to talk a little.
Where am I, Mug? What room, I mean?”

“Why, Miss Alice’s, in course. She
’sisted, and ’sisted, till ’em brung
you in here, ’case she say it cool and nice.
Oh, Miss Alice so fine.”

“In Miss Johnson’s room,” and Hugh
looked perfectly bewildered. In the room he had
taken so much pains to have in order; it could not
be; and he passed his hand up and down the comfortable
mattress, striking it once with his fist, to see if
it would sink in, and then, in a perplexed whisper,
he asked: “This is her room, you say; but,
Mug, where are the two feather beds?”

Page 103

In a most aggrieved tone, Mug explained how Miss Adah
and Aunt Eunice had spoiled their handiwork, but could
not talk long of anything without bringing in Miss
Alice.

“Where does Miss Alice pray for me?” he
asked, and Muggins replied:

“Oh here, when she bese alone, and downstairs,
and everywhere. You wants to hear her?”

Yes, Hugh did.

“Mug,” he said. “I am going
to be crazy as a loon. I have not been rational
a bit, and you must not say I have. You must not
say anything. Do you understand?”

Mug didn’t at first, but after a little it came
to her that “Mas’r Hugh was goin’
to play ’possum. That Miss Alice and all
dem would think him ravin’ and only she would
know the truth.” It would be rare sport
for Mug, and after giving her promise, she waited
anxiously for some one to come. At last another
footstep sounded in the hall.

“That’s her’n,” Muggins whispered.
“Is you crazy, Mas’r Hugh?”

“Hush-sh!” came warningly from Hugh, who,
the next moment had turned his head away from the
fading light, and with eyes closed, pretended to be
asleep.

Softly, on tiptoe as it were, Alice approached the
bedside, bending so low to see if he were sleeping
that he felt her fragrant breath, and a most delicious
thrill ran through his frame, when a little, soft,
warm hand was laid upon his brow, where the veins
were throbbing wildly—­so wildly that the
unsuspecting maiden wet the linen napkin used for such
a purpose, and bathed the feverish skin, pushing back,
with a half-caressing motion, the rings of damp, brown
hair, and still the wicked Hugh never moved, nor winked,
nor gave the slightest token of the ecstatic bliss
he was enjoying.

“What a consummate hypocrite I am, to lie here
and let her do what money could not tempt her to do,
if she knew that I was conscious, but hanged if I
don’t like it,” was Hugh’s mental
comment, while Alice’s was: “Poor
Hugh, the doctor said he would probably be better when
he waked from this sleep, better or worse. Oh,
what if he should die, and leave no sign of repentance,”
and by the rustling movement, Hugh knew that Alice
Johnson was kneeling at his side, and with his hot
hands in hers was praying for him, that he might not
die.

“Spare him for his mother, he is her only boy,”
he heard her say, and on the pillow, where his face
was lying, the great tear drops fell, as he thought
how unworthy he was that she should pray for him.

He knew the pillow was wet, and shuddered when Alice
attempted to fix his head, turning it more to the
light. She saw the tear stains, and murmured
to herself: “I did not think it was so warm.”
Then, sitting down beside him, she fanned him gently,
occasionally feeling for his pulse to see if it were
as rapid as ever. Once, as she touched his wrist,
his fingers closed involuntarily around her little
hand and held it a prisoner. He could not help
it; the temptation was too strong to be resisted,
and then he reflected that a crazy man was not responsible
for his actions! As rational Hugh, he could never
hope to touch that little soft hand trembling in his
like a frightened bird, so he would as crazy Hugh
improve his opportunity; and he did, holding fast the
hand, and when she attempted to draw it away, pressing
it tighter and muttering:

Page 104

“No, no; mother, no.”

“He thinks I am you,” Alice whispered,
as Mrs. Worthington came in, and Hugh’s heart
gave one great throb of filial love when his mother
stooped over him, and ’mid a shower of tears
kissed his forehead and lips, murmuring:

“Darling boy, he’ll never know how much
his poor mother loved him, or how her heart will break
with missing him if he dies.”

It was with the utmost difficulty that Hugh could
restrain himself then, from assuring his mother that
the crisis was passed and he was out of danger.

“I’ve gone too far now, the hypocrite
that I am,” he thought. “Alice Johnson
never would forgive me. I can’t retract
now, not yet; I’m in a pretty fix.”

As the twilight gathered in the room he lay, listening
while his mother and Alice talked together, some times
of him, sometimes of Colonel Tiffton, whose embarrassments
were now generally known, and again of ’Lina,
who, he heard, had chosen to remain at Saratoga, where
she was enjoying herself so much with dear Mrs. Richards.

It was Alice who sat up that night, and Hugh, as he
lay watching her with half-closed eyes, as in her
loose plain wrapper, with her luxuriant curls, coiled
in a large square knot at the back of her head, she
moved noiselessly around the room, felt a pang of
remorse at his own duplicity, one moment resolving
to give up the part he was playing and bid her leave
him alone, and seek the rest she needed. But the
temptation to keep her there was strong. He would
be very quiet, he said to himself, and he kept his
word, remaining so still and apparently sleeping so
soundly, that Alice lay down upon the lounge on the
opposite side of the room, where she had lain many
a night, but never as now, with Hugh’s eyes
upon her, watching her so eagerly as she fell away
to sleep, her soft, regular, childlike breathing awaking
a thrill in Hugh’s heart, and sending the blood
in little, tingling throbs through every vein.

The drops and powders on the table remained undisturbed
that night, for the patient was too quiet, and the
watcher was so tired, that the latter never woke until
the daylight was breaking, and Adah came to relieve
her. With a frightened start she arose, astonished
to find it was morning.

“I wonder if he had suffered from my neglect?”
she said, stealing up to Hugh, who had schooled himself
to meet her gaze with wide, open eyes, which certainly
had in them no delirium, and which puzzled Alice somewhat,
making her blush and turn away.

The old doctor, too, was puzzled, when, later in the
morning, he came in, feeling his patient’s pulse,
examining his tongue, and pronouncing him decidedly
out of danger. The fever had left him, he said—­the
crisis was past—­Hugh was a heap better,
and for his part he could not understand why the mind
should not also come clear, or what it was which made
his hitherto talkative subject so silent. He never
had such a case—­he didn’t believe
his books had one on record; and the befogged old
man hurried home to see if, in all his musty volumes,
unopened for many a year, there was a parallel case
to Hugh Worthington’s.

Page 105

CHAPTER XXIII

’LINA’S LETTER

Wicked Hugh! How he did enjoy it, for days seeing
the family come in and out, talking as freely of him
as if he were a log of wood, and how perfectly happy
he was when, one morning Alice came in and sat by him,
placing her tiny gold thimble upon her delicate finger,
and bending over her bit of dainty embroidery, humming
occasionally a sweet, mournful air, which showed that
her thoughts were wandering back to the cottage by
the river, where her mother lived and died. While
she was sitting there Mrs. Worthington joined her,
and a moment after a letter was brought in from ’Lina,
containing on the corner, “In haste.”

Mrs. Worthington’s eyesight had always been
poor, and latterly it was greatly impaired, making
glasses indispensable. Unfortunately, she had
that very morning broken one of the eyes, and consequently
could not use them at all.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing out
the words, “In haste,” to Alice, who explained
what it was, while Mrs. Worthington, fearing lest
something had befallen her daughter, could scarcely
tear open the envelope. Then, when it was open,
she could not read it, for ’Lina’s writing
was never very plain, and passing it to Alice, she
said, entreatingly:

“Please read it for me. There is no secret,
I presume.”

Glancing at Hugh, who had purposely turned his face
to the wall, Alice commenced as follows:

“FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL, NEW YORK,
OCTOBER, 1860.”

“DEAR MOTHER: What a little
eternity it is since I heard from you, and how am
I to know that you are not all dead and buried.
Were it not that no news is good news, I should
sometimes fancy that Hugh was worse, and feel terribly
for not having gone home when you did.

“Now, then, to business, and firstly,
as Parson Brown, of Elm wood, used to say, I want
Hugh to send me some money, or all is lost. Tell
him he must either beg, borrow, pawn or steal, for
the rhino I must have. Let me explain.

“Here I am at Fifth Avenue Hotel,
as good as any lady, if my purse is almost empty.
Plague on it, why didn’t that Mrs. Johnson send
me two thousand instead of one? It would not
hurt her, and them I should get through nicely.”

“Oh, I ought not to read this—­I cannot,”
and Alice threw the letter from her, and hurried from
the room.

“The way of the transgressor is hard,”
groaned Hugh, and the groan caught the ear of his
mother.

“What is it, Hugh?” she asked, coming
quickly to his side. “Are you worse?
Do you want anything?”

“No, I’m better, I reckon—­the
cobwebs are gone. I am myself again. What
have you here?” and Hugh grasped the closely
written sheet.

In her delight at having her son restored to his reason
so suddenly, so unexpectedly, as the poor, deluded
woman believed, Mrs. Worthington forgot for a moment
the pain, and clasped her arms about him, sobbing
like a child.

Page 106

“Oh, my boy, I am so glad, so glad!” and
her tears dropped fast, as like a weary child, which
wanted to be soothed, she laid her head upon his bosom,
crying quietly.

And Hugh, stronger now than she, held the poor, tired
head there, and kissed the white forehead, where there
were more wrinkles now than when he last observed
it. His mother was growing old with care rather
than with years, and Hugh shuddered, as, for the first
time in his life, he thought how dreadful it would
be to have no mother. Folding his weak arms about
her, mother and son wept together in that moment of
perfect understanding and union with each other.
Hugh was the first to rally. It seemed so pleasant
to lean on him, to know that he cared so much for
her, that Mrs. Worthington would gladly have rested
on his bosom longer, but Hugh was anxious to know
the worst, and brought her back to something of the
old, sad life, by asking if the letter were from ’Lina.

“Yes; I can’t make it out, for one of
my glasses is broken, and you know she writes so blind.”

“It never troubles me,” and taking the
letter from her unresisting hand, Hugh asked that
another pillow should be placed beneath his head, while
he read it aloud.

“You see that thousand is almost
gone, and as board is two and a half dollars per
day, I can’t stay long and shop in Broadway with
old Mrs. Richards, as I am expected to do in my capacity
of heiress. I tell you, Spring Bank, Kentucky—­crazy
old rat trap as it is, has done wonders for me in
the way of getting me noticed. If I had any
soul, big enough to find with a microscope, I believe
I should hate the North for cringing so to anything
from Dixie. Let the veriest vagabond in all
the South, so ignorant that he can scarcely spell
baker correctly, to say nothing of biscuit, let him,
I say, come to any one of the New York hotels, and
with something of a swell write himself from Charleston,
or any other Southern city, and bless me, what deference
is paid to my lord!

“You see I am a pure Southern woman
here; nobody but Mrs. Richards knows that I was
born, mercy knows where. But for you, she never
need have known it either, but you must tell that
we had not always lived in Kentucky.

“But to do Mrs. Richards justice,
she never alludes to my birth. She takes it
for granted that I moved, like Douglas, when I was
very young, and you ought to hear her introduce me
to some of her aristocratic friends. ’Mrs.
So and So, Miss Worthington, from Spring Bank, Kentucky,’
then in an aside, which I am not supposed to hear,
she adds, ’A great heiress, of a very respectable
family. You may have heard of them.’
Somehow, this always makes me uncomfortable, as
it brings up certain cogitations touching that scamp
you were silly enough to marry, thereby giving me to
the world, which my delectable brother no doubt
thinks would have been better off without me.
How is Hugh? And how is that Hastings woman?

Page 107

Are you both as much in love with her as ever?
Well, so be it. I do not know as she ever harmed
me, and she did fit my dresses beautifully.
Even Mrs. Richards, who is a judge of such things,
says they display so much taste, attributing it,
of course, to my own directions. I am so glad
now that I forgot to send her letter, as I would
not for the world have Adah in the Richards’
family. It would ruin my prospects for becoming
Mrs. Dr. Richards sure, and allow me to say they
are not inconsiderable.”

“What does she mean? What letter?
Who is Dr. Richards?” Hugh asked, his face a
purplish red, and contrasting strikingly with the one
of ashen hue still resting on his shoulder.

Mrs. Worthington explained as well as she could, and
Hugh went on:

“Old Mrs. Richards would, of course,
question Adah, and as Adah has
some foolish scruples about the truth,
she would be very apt to let
the cat out of the bag.

“We left Saratoga a week ago—­old
lady Richards wanted to go to Terrace Hill a while
and show me to Anna, who, it seems, is a kind of
family oracle. After counting the little gold
eagles in my purse, I said perhaps I’d go
for a few days, though I dreaded it terribly, for
the doctor had not yet bound himself fast, and I did
not know what the result of those three old maid
sisters, sitting on me, would be. Old lady
was quite happy in prospect of going home, when
one day a letter came from Anna. I happened to
have a headache, and was lying on madam’s
bed, when the dinner bell happened to ring.
I just peeped into the letter, feeling like stealing
sheep, but being amply rewarded by the insight I obtained
into the family secrets.

“They are poorer than I supposed,
but that does not matter, position is what I want,
and that they can give me. Anna, it seems, has
an income of her own, and, generous soul that she is,
gives it out to her mother. She sent fifty
dollars in the letter, and in referring to it, said,
’Much as I might enjoy it, dear mother, I cannot
afford to come where you are, I can pay your bills
for some time longer, if you really think the water
a benefit, but my presence would just double the
expense. Then, if brother does marry, I wish
to surprise him with a handsome set of pearls for his
bride, and I am economizing to do so.’”
(Note by ’Lina)—­“Isn’t
she a clever old soul? Don’t she deserve
a better sister-in-law than I shall make, and won’t
I find the way to her purse often?”

Hugh groaned aloud, and the letter dropped from his
hand.

“Mother,” he gasped, “it must not
be. ’Lina shall not thrust herself upon
them. This Anna shall not be so cruelly deceived.
I don’t care a picayune for the doctor or the
old lady. They are much like ’Lina, I reckon,
but this Anna awakens my sympathy. I mean to warn
her.”

Hugh read on, feeling as if he, too, were guilty,
thus to know what sweet Anna Richards had intended
only for her mother’s eye.

Page 108

“’From some words you have
dropped, I fancy you are not quite satisfied with
brother’s choice—­that Miss Worthington
does not suit you in all respects, and you wish
me to see her. Dear mother, John marries for
himself, not for us. I have got so I can drive
myself out in the little pony phaeton which Miss
Johnson was so kind as to leave for my benefit.
Darling Alice, how much I miss her. She always
did me good in more ways than one. She found the
germ of faith which I did not know I possessed.
She encouraged me to go on. She told me of
Him who will not break the bruised reed. She
left me, as I trust, a better woman than she found
me. Precious Alice! how I loved her. Oh,
if she could have fancied John, as at one time I
hoped she would.’

(Second note by ’Lina.) “How
that made me gnash my teeth, for I had
suspected that I was only playing second
fiddle for Alice Johnson,
‘darling, precious Alice,’
as Anna calls her.”

“Oh, I am so glad Alice didn’t read this
letter,” Mrs. Worthington cried, while something
which sounded much like a bit of an oath dropped from
Hugh’s white lips, and then he continued:

“’When will you come?
Asenath has sent the curtains in the north chamber
to the laundress, but will go no farther until we hear
for certain that Miss Worthington is to be our guest.
Write immediately.

“’Yours affectionately,

“’ANNA.

“’Remember me to John and
Miss W——.

“’P.S.—­I still
continue to be annoyed with women answering that advertisement.
Sometimes I’m half sorry I put it in the paper,
though if the right one ever comes, I shall think
there was a Providence in it.’

“Mother, I am resolved now to win
Dr. Richards at all hazards. Only let me keep
up the appearance of wealth, and the thing is easily
accomplished; but I can’t go to Terrace Hill
yet, cannot meet this Anna, for, kindly as she spoke
of me, I dread her decision more than all the rest,
inasmuch as I know it would have more weight with
the doctor.

“But to come back to the madam,
showing her point-lace cap at dinner, and telling
Mrs. ex-Governor Somebody how Miss Worthington had
a severe headache. I was fast asleep when she
returned. Had not read Anna’s letter,
nor anything! You should have seen her face when
I told her I had changed my mind, that I could not
go to Terrace Hill, that mamma (that’s you!)
did not think it would be proper, inasmuch as I
had no claim upon them. You see, I made her believe
I had written to you on the subject, receiving a reply
that you disapproved of my going, and Brother Hugh,
too, I quote him a heap, making madam laugh till
she cried with repeating his odd speeches, she does
so want to see that eccentric Hugh, she says.”

Another groan from Mrs. Worthington, another something
like an oath from that eccentric Hugh, and he went
on:

Page 109

“I said, brother was afraid it was
improper under the circumstances for me to go, afraid
lest people should talk; that I preferred going
at once to New York. So it was finally decided,
to the doctor’s relief, I fancied, that we
come here, and here we are—­hotel just
like a beehive, and my room is in the fifth story.

“John had come on the day before
to secure rooms, so madam and I were alone, occupying
two whole seats, madam and myself on one, madam’s
feet, two satchels, two silk umbrellas, one fan, one
bouquet, and a book in the other. Several tired-looking
folks glanced wistfully in that direction, but madam
frowned so majestically that they passed on into
another car, leaving us to our extra seat.
At Rhinebeck, however, she found her match in a very
fine-looking man, apparently forty or thereabouts,
with a weed on his hat and a certain air, which
savored strongly of psalms and hymns and extempore
praying. In short, I guessed at once that he
was a Presbyterian minister, old school at that.
Now, madam, you know, is true blue—­apostolically
descended, and cannot tolerate anything like a dissenter.
But I do not give her credit for having sufficient
sagacity to detect the heretic in this handsome, pleasant-faced
stranger, who stood looking this way and that for a
seat. Madam, I saw, grew very red in the face,
and finally threw down her veil, but not till the
minister saw it, and half started forward as if
about to speak. The movement showed him one extra
seat, and very politely he laid his hand upon it,
saying:

“’Pardon me, ladies, this,
I believe, is unoccupied, and I can find
no other.’

“Madam’s feet came down with
a jerk, ditto madam’s portion of the traps,
although the stranger insisted that they did not trouble
him, while again his mild but expressive eyes scanned
the brown veil as if he would know whose face was
under it. When we reached New York, he bowed
to us again, as if to offer us assistance, but the
doctor himself appeared, so that his services were
unnecessary.

“‘Did you see him?’
madam whispered to John, who answered:

“‘See who?’

“‘Millbrook! He sat right
there!’

“‘What, the parson? Where
is he going?’

“‘I don’t know.
I’m so glad Anna was not here.’

“All this was in an aside, but I
heard it, and here are the conclusions. Parson
Millbrook has been and wants to be again a lover
of Anna Richards, but madam has shut up her bowels
of compassion against him for some reason to this
deponent unknown. Poor Anna, I am sorry for
her, and as her sister, may perhaps help her; but
shall I ever be her sister? Ay, there’s
the rub, and now, honor bright, I reach the point
at last.

“I am determined to bring the doctor
to terms, and so rid you and Hugh of myself.
To do this I must at some rate keep up the appearance
of wealth. Perhaps Hugh never knew that Nell Tiffton

Page 110

lent me that elegant pearl bracelet, bought by her
father at Ball & Black’s. Night before
last the doctor took me to hear Charlotte Cushman
as Meg Merrilies. I wore all the jewelery
for which I could find a place, Nell’s bracelet
with the rest. The doctor and madam have both
admired it very much, never dreaming that it was borrowed.
In the jam coming out it must have unclasped and dropped
off, for it’s not to be found high nor low,
and you can fancy the muss I am in. Down at
Ball & Black’s there fortunately is another
exactly like Nell’s, and this I must buy at
any rate. I can perhaps pay my board bills
four or five weeks longer, but Hugh must send me fifty
dollars with which to replace the bracelet. It
must be done.

“Don’t for mercy’s sake,
let Alice Johnson get a sight of this
letter. I wonder if Dr. Richards
did fancy her. Send the money,
send the money.

“Your distracted

“’LINA.

“P.S.—­One day later.
Rejoice, oh, rejoice! and give ear. The doctor
has actually asked the question, and I blushingly referred
him to mamma, but he seemed to think this unnecessary,
took alarm at once, and pressed the matter until
I said yea. Aren’t you glad? But
one thing is sure—­Hugh must sell a nigger
to get me a handsome outfit. There’s
Mug, always under foot, doing no one any good.
She’ll bring six hundred any day, she’s
so bright and healthy. Lulu he must give out
and out for a waiting maid. Madam expects it.
And now one word more; if Adah Hastings has not
got over her idea of going to Terrace Hill, she
must get over it. Coax, advise, plead with,
threaten, or even throttle her, if necessary—­anything
to keep her back.

“Yours, in ecstatic distress,

“’LINA”

CHAPTER XXIV

FORESHADOWINGS

So absorbed were Hugh and his mother in that letter
as not to hear the howl of fear echoing through the
hall, as Mug fled in terror from the dreaded new owner
to whom Master Hugh was to sell her. Neither did
they hear the catlike tread with which Lulu glided
past the door, taking the same direction Mug had gone,
namely, to Alice Johnson’s room.

Lulu had been sitting by the open window at the end
of the hall, and had heard every word of this letter,
while Mug had reached the threshold in time to hear
all that was said about selling her. Instinctively
both turned for protection to Alice, but Mug was the
first to reach her. Throwing herself upon her
knees, she sobbed frantically.

Alice tried to wrest her muslin dress from the child’s
grasp, asking what she meant.

“I know, I’ll tell,” and Lulu, scarcely
less excited, but far more capable of restraining
herself, advanced into the room, and ere the bewildered
Alice could well understand what it all meant, or make
more than a feeble attempt to stop her, she had repeated
rapidly the entire contents of ’Lina’s
letter.

Page 111

Too much amazed at first to speak, Alice sat motionless,
then she said to Lulu.

“I am sorry that you told me this. It was
wrong in you to listen, and you must not repeat it
to any one else. Will you promise?”

Lulu gave the required promise, then with terror in
every lineament of her face she said:

Alice did not know Hugh as well as we do, and in her
heart there was a fear lest for the sake of peace
he might be overruled, so she replied evasively.
It was no easy task to sooth Muggins, and only Alice’s
direct avowal, that if possible she would herself
become her purchaser, checked her cries at all, but
the moment this was said her sobbing ceased, and Alice
was able to question Lulu as to whether Hugh had read
the letter.

“He must be rational,” she said, “but
it is so sudden,” and a painful uneasiness crept
over her as she recalled the look which several times
had puzzled her so much.

“You can go now,” Alice said, sitting
down to reflect as to her next best course.

Adah must go to Terrace Hill at once, and Alice’s
must be the purse which defrayed all the expense of
fitting her up. If ever Alice felt thankful to
God for having made her rich in this world’s
goods, it was that morning. Only the previous
night she had heard from Colonel Tiffton that the
day was fixed for the sale of his house and that Nell
had nearly cried herself into a second fever at the
thoughts of leaving Mosside. “Then there’s
Rocket,” the colonel had said, “Hugh cannot
buy him back, and he’s so bound up in him too,
poor Hugh, poor all of us,” and the colonel
had wrung Alice’s hand, hurrying off ere she
had time to suggest what all along had been in her
mind.

“It does not matter,” she thought.
“A surprise will be quite as pleasant, and then
Mr. Liston may object to it as a silly girl’s
fancy.”

This was the previous night, and now this morning
another demand had come in the shape of Muggins weeping
in her lap, of Lulu begging to be saved from ’Lina
Worthington, and from ’Lina herself asking Hugh
for the money Alice knew he had not got.

“But I have,” she whispered, “and
I will send it too.”

Just then Adah came up the stairs, and Alice called
her in, asking if she still wished to go to Terrace
Hill.

“Yes, more than ever,” Adah replied.
“Hugh is rational, I hear, so I can talk to
him about it before long. You must be present,
as I’m sure he will oppose it.”

Meantime in the sickroom there was an anxious consultation
between mother and son touching the fifty dollars
which must be raised for Nellie Tiffton’s sake.

“Were it not that I feel bound by honor to pay
that debt, ’Lina might die before I’d
send her a cent,” said Hugh, his eyes blazing
with anger as he recalled the contents of ’Lina’s
letter.

But how should they raise the fifty? Alice’s
bills had been paid regularly thus far, paid so delicately
too, so as a matter of right, that Mrs. Worthington,
who knew how sadly it was needed in their present
distress, had accepted it unhesitatingly, but Hugh’s
face flushed with a glow of shame when he heard from
his mother’s lips that Alice was really paying
them her board.

Page 112

“It makes me hate myself,” he said, groaning
aloud, “that I should suffer a girl like her
to pay for the bread she eats. Oh, poverty, poverty!
It is a bitter drug to swallow.” Then like
a brave man who saw the evil and was willing to face
it, Hugh came back to the original point, “Where
should they get the money?”

“He might borrow it of Alice, as ’Lina
suggested,” Mrs. Worthington said, timidly,
while Hugh almost leaped upon the floor.

“Never, mother, never! Miss Johnson shall
not be made to pay our debts. There’s Uncle
John’s gold watch, left as a kind of heirloom,
and very dear on that account. I’ve carried
it long, but now it must go. There’s a
pawnbroker’s office opened in Frankfort—­take
it there this very afternoon, and get for it what
you can. I never shall redeem it. There’s
no hope. It was in my vest pocket when I was taken
sick.”

“No, Hugh, not that. I know how much you
prize it, and it’s all the valuable thing you
have. I’ll take in washing first,”
Mrs. Worthington said.

But Hugh was in earnest, and his mother brought the
watch from the nail over the mantel, where, all through
his sickness it had ticked away the weary hours, just
as it ticked the night its first owner died, with only
Hugh sitting near, and listening as it told the fleeting
moments.

“If I could only ask Alice what it was worth,”
she thought—­and why couldn’t she?
Yes, she would ask Alice, and with the old hope strong
at her heart, she went to Alice, whom she found alone.

“Did you wish to tell me anything? Hugh
is better, I hear,” Alice said, observing Mrs.
Worthington’s agitation, and then the whole came
out.

“’Lina must have fifty dollars. The
necessity was imperative, and they had not fifty to
send unless Hugh sold his uncle’s watch, but
she did not know what it was worth—­could
Alice tell her?”

“Worth more than you will get,” Alice
said, and then, as delicately as possible she offered
the money from her own purse, advancing so many reasons
why they should take it, that poor Mrs. Worthington
began to feel that in accepting it, she would do Alice
a favor.

“She was willing,” she stammered, “but
there was Hugh—­what could they do with
him?”

“I’ll manage that,” Alice said,
laughingly. “I’ll engage that he eats
neither of us up. Suppose you write to ’Lina
now, saying that Hugh is better, and inclosing the
money. I have some New York money still,”
and she counted out, not fifty, but seventy-five dollars,
thinking within herself, “she may need it more
than I do.”

Easily swayed, Mrs. Worthington took the pen which
Alice offered, but quickly put it from her, saying,
with a little rational indignation, as she remembered
’Lina’s heartlessness:

Placing the money in an envelope, Alice directed it
as she was bidden, without one word of Hugh, and without
the slightest congratulation concerning the engagement;
nothing but the money, which was to replace Ellen
Tiffton’s bracelet.

Page 113

Claib was deputed as messenger to take it to the office,
together with a hastily-written note to Mr. Liston,
and then Alice sat down to consider the best means
of breaking it to Hugh. Would he prove as gentle
as when delirium was upon him; or would he be greatly
changed? And what would he think of her?
Alice would not have confessed it, but this really
was the most important query of all.

Alice was not well pleased with her looks that morning.
She was too pale, too languid, and the black dress
she wore only increased the difficulty by adding to
the marble hue of her complexion. Even her hair
did not curl as well as usual, though Mug, who had
dried her tears and come back to Alice’s room,
admired her so much, likening her to the apple blossoms
which grew in the lower orchard.

“Is you gwine to Mas’r Hugh?” she
asked, as Alice passed out into the hall. “I’se
jest been dar. He’s peart as a new dollar—­knows
everybody. How long sense, you ’spec’?”
and Mug looked very wise, as she thus skirted around
what she was forbidden to divulge on pain of Hugh’s
displeasure.

But Alice had no suspicions, and bidding Mug go down,
she entered Hugh’s presence with a feeling that
it was to all intents and purposes their first meeting
with each other.

CHAPTER XXV

TALKING WITH HUGH

“This is Miss Johnson,” Mrs. Worthington
said, as Alice drew near, her pallor giving place
to a bright flush.

“I fancy I am to a certain degree indebted to
Miss Johnson for my life,” Hugh said. “I
was not wholly unconscious of your presence,”
he continued, still holding her hand. “There
were moments when I had a vague idea of somebody different
from those I have always known bending over me, and
I fancied, too, that this somebody was sent to save
me from some great evil. I am glad you were here,
Miss Johnson; I shall not forget your kindness.”

He dropped her hand then, while Alice attempted to
stammer out some reply.

“Adah, too, had been kind,” she said,
“quite as kind as herself.”

“Yes, Hugh knew that Adah was a dear, good girl.
He was glad they liked each other.”

Alice thought of Terrace Hill, but this was hardly
the time to worry Hugh with that, so she sat silent
a while, until Mrs. Worthington, growing very fidgety
and very anxious to have the money matter adjusted,
said abruptly:

“You must not be angry, Hugh. I asked Alice
what that watch was worth, and somehow the story of
the lost bracelet came out, and—­and—­she—­Alice
would not let me sell the watch. Don’t look
so black, Hugh, don’t—­oh, Miss Johnson,
you must pacify him,” and in terror poor Mrs.
Worthington fled from the room, leaving Alice and
Hugh alone.

“My mother told you of our difficulties!
Has she no discretion, no sense?” and Hugh’s
face grew dark with the wrath he dared not manifest
with Alice’s eyes upon him.

Page 114

“Mr. Worthington,” she said, “you
have thanked me for caring for you when you were sick.
You have expressed a wish to return in some way what
you were pleased to call a kindness. There is
a way, a favor you can grant me, a favor we women
prize so highly; will you grant it? Will you
let me do as I please? that’s the favor.”

She looked a very queen born to be obeyed as she talked
thus to Hugh. She did not make him feel small
or mean, only submissive, while her kindness touched
a tender chord, which could not vibrate unseen.
Hugh was very weak, very nervous, too, and turning
his head away so that she could not see his face,
he let the hot tears drop upon his pillow; slowly
at first they came, but gradually as everything—­his
embarrassed condition, Rocket’s loss, ’Lina’s
selfishness, and Alice’s generosity, came rushing
over him—­they fell in perfect torrents,
and Alice felt a keen pang of pity, as sob after sob
smote upon her ear, and she knew the shame it must
be to him thus to give away before her.

“I did not mean to distress you so. I am
sorry if I have done a wrong,” she said to him
softly, a sound of tears in her own voice.

He turned his white, suffering face toward her, and
answered with quivering lip:

“It is not so much that. It is everything
combined. I am weak, I’m sick, I’m
discouraged,” and Hugh could not restrain the
tears. Soon rallying, however, he continued:

“You think me a snivelling coward, no doubt,
but believe me, Miss Johnson, it is not my nature
thus to give way. Tears and Hugh Worthington
are usually strangers to each other. I am a man,
and I will prove it to you, when I get well, but now
I am not myself, and I grant the favor you ask, simply
because I can’t help it. You meant it in
kindness. I take it as such. I thank you,
but it must not be repeated. You have come to
be my friend, my sister, you say. God bless you
for that. I need a sister’s love so much,
and Adah has given it to me. You like Adah?”
and he fixed his eyes inquiringly on Alice, who answered:

“Yes, very much.”

Now that the money matter was settled Hugh did not
care to talk longer of that or of himself, and eagerly
seized upon Adah as a topic interesting to both, and
which would be likely to keep Alice with him for a
while at least, so, after a moment’s silence,
during which Alice was revolving the expediency of
leaving him lest he should become too weary, he continued:

“Miss Johnson, you don’t know how much
I love Adah Hastings; not as men generally love,”
he hastily added, as he caught an expression of surprise
on Alice’s face, “not as that villain professed
to love her, but, as it seems to me, a brother might
love an only sister. I mean no disrespect to
’Lina,” and his chin quivered a little,
“but I have dreamed of a different, brotherly
love from what I feel toward her, and my heart has
beaten so fast when I built castles of what might have
been had we both been different, I, more forbearing,
more even tempered, more like the world in general,
and she, more—­more”—­he
knew not what, for he would not speak against her,
so he finally added, “had she known, just how
to take me—­just how to make allowances for
my rough, uncouth ways, which, of course, annoy her.”

Page 115

Poor Hugh! he was trying now to smooth over what ’Lina
had told Alice of himself—­trying to apologize
for them both, and he did it so skillfully, that Alice
felt an increased respect for the man whose real character
she had so misunderstood. She, knew, however,
that it could not be pleasant for him to speak of
’Lina, and so she led him back to Adah by saying:

“I had thought to talk with you of a plan which
Mrs. Hastings has in view, but think, perhaps, I had
better wait till you are stronger.”

“I am strong enough now—­stronger
than you think. Tell me of the plan,” and
Hugh urged the request until Alice told him of Terrace
Hill and Adah’s wish to go there.

“I have heard something of this plan before,”
he said at last. “Ad spoke of it in her
letter. Miss Johnson, you know Dr. Richards, I
believe. Do you like him? Is he a man to
be trusted?”

“Yes, I know Dr. Richards. He is said to
be fine looking. I suspect there is a liking
between him and your sister. Suppose for your
benefit I describe him,” and without waiting
for permission, Alice portrayed the doctor, feature
by feature, watching Hugh narrowly the while, to see
if aught she said harmonized with any likeness he
might have in his mind.

But Hugh was not thinking of that night which ruined
Adah, and Alice’s description awakened no suspicion.
She saw it did not, and thought once to tell him frankly
all she feared, but was deterred from doing so by a
feeling that possibly she might be wrong in her conjectures.
Adah’s presence at Terrace Hill would set that
matter right, and she asked if Hugh did not think
it best for her to go.

Hugh could only talk in a straightforward manner,
and after a moment he answered:

“Yes, best on some accounts. Her going
may do good and prevent a wrong. Yes, Adah may
go.”

He continued: “she surely cannot go alone.
Would Sam do? I hear her now. Call her while
I talk with her.”

Adah came at once, and heard from Hugh that he was
willing she should go, provided Spring Bank were still
considered her home, the spot to which she could always
turn for shelter as to a brother’s house.

“You seem so like a sister,” he said,
smoothing her soft brown hair, “that I shall
be sorry to lose you, and shall miss you so much, but
Miss Johnson thinks it right for you to go. Will
you take Sam as an escort?”

“Oh, no, no; I don’t want anybody,”
Adah cried, “Keep Sam with you, and if in time
I should earn enough to buy him, to free him.
Oh, will you sell him to me,—­not to keep,”
she added, quickly, as she saw the quizzical expression
of Hugh’s face,—­“not to keep.
I would not own a slave—­but to free, to
tell him he’s his own master. Will you,
Hugh?”

He answered with a smile:

“I thought once as you do, that I would not
own my brother, but we get hardened to these things.
I’ve never sold one yet.”

“But you will. You’ll sell me Sam,”
and Adah, in her eagerness, grasped his hand.

Page 116

“I’ll give him to you,” Hugh said.
“Call him, Miss Johnson.”

Alice obeyed, and Sam came hobbling in, listening
in amazement to Hugh’s question.

“Would you like to be free, my boy?”

There was a sudden flush on the old man’s cheek,
and then he answered, meekly:

“Thanky’, Mas’r Hugh. It comed
a’most too late. Years ago, when Sam was
young and peart, de berry smell of freedom make de
sap bump through de veins like trip-hammer. Den,
world all before, now world all behind. Nothing
but t’other side of Jordan before. ’Bleeged
to you, berry much, but when mas’r bought ole
Sam for pity, ole Sam feel in his bones that some
time he pay Mas’r Hugh; he don’t know how,
but it be’s comin’. Sam knows it.
I’m best off here.”

“But suppose I died, when I was so sick, what
then?” Hugh asked, and Sam replied:

“I thinks that all over on dem days mas’r
so rarin’. I prays many times that God
would spar’ young mas’r, and He hears ole
Sam. He gives us back our mas’r.”

There were tears in Hugh’s eyes, but he again
urged upon him his freedom, offering to give him either
to Adah or Alice, just which he preferred.

“I likes ’em both,” Sam said, “but
I likes Mas’r Hugh de best, ’case, scuse
me, mas’r, he ain’t in de way, I feared,
and Sam hope to help him find it. Sam long’s
to Mas’r Hugh till dat day comes he sees ahead,
when he pays off de debt.”

With another blessing on Mas’r Hugh Sam left
the room.

“What can he mean about a coming day when he
can pay his debt?” Hugh asked, but Alice could
not enlighten him.

Adah, however, after hesitating a moment, replied:

“During your illness you have lost the newspaper
gossip to the effect that if Lincoln is elected to
the presidential chair, civil war is sure to be the
result. Now, what Sam means is this, that in case
of a rebellion or insurrection, which he fully expects,
he will in some way save your life, he don’t
know how, but he is sure.”

To Alice the word rebellion or insurrection had a
dreadful sound, and her cheek paled with fear, but
the feeling quickly passed away, as, like many other
deluded ones she thought how impossible it was that
our fair republic should be compelled to lay her dishonored
head low in the dust.

It was settled finally that Adah should go as soon
as the necessary additions could be made to her own
and Willie’s wardrobe, and then Alice adroitly
led the conversation to Colonel Tiffton and his embarrassments.
What did Hugh think Mosside worth, and who would probably
be most anxious to secure it? There were livid
spots on Hugh’s face now, and a strange gleam
in his dark eyes as he answered between his teeth,
“Harney,” groaning aloud as he remembered
Rocket, and saw him in fancy the property of his enemy.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE DAY OF THE SALE

It was strange Hugh did not improve faster, the old
doctor thought. There was something weighing
on his mind, he said, something which kept him awake,
and the kind man set himself to divine the cause.
Thinking at last he had done so, he said to him one
day, the last before the sale:

Page 117

“My boy, you don’t get on for worrying
about something. I don’t pretend to second
sight, but I b’lieve I’ve got on the right
track. It’s my pesky bill. I know
it’s big, for I’ve been here every day
this going on three months, but I’ll cut it
down to the last cent, see if I don’t; and if
it’s an object, I’ll wait ten years, so
chirk up a bit,” and wringing his hand, the
well-meaning doctor hurried off, leaving Hugh alone
with his sad thoughts.

It was not so much the bill which troubled him—­it
was Rocket, and the feeling sure that he should never
own him again. Heretofore there had at intervals
been a faint hope in his heart that by some means he
might redeem him, but that was over now. The
sale of Colonel Tiffton’s effects occurred upon
the morrow, and money stood waiting for Rocket, while
Harney, with a fiendish, revengeful disposition, which
was determined to gain its point at last, had been
heard to say that “rather than lose the horse
or let it pass back to its former owner, he believed
he would give a thousand dollars.”

That settled it, Hugh had no thousand dollars; he
had not even ten, and with a moan of pain, he tried
to shut out Rocket from his mind. And this it
was which kept him so nervous and restless, dreading
yet longing for the eventful day, and feeling glad
when at last he could say—­

“To-morrow is the sale.”

The next morning was cold and chilly, making Hugh
shiver as he waited for the footstep which he had
learned to know so well. She had not come to
see him the previous night, and he waited for her anxiously
now, feeling sure that on this day of all others she
would stay with him. How, then, was he disappointed
when at last she came to him, cloaked and hooded as
for a ride.

“Are you going out to-day again?” he asked,
his tone that of a pleading child.

“It does not seem right to leave you alone,
I know,” she said, “but poor Ellen needs
me sadly, and I promised to be there.”

“It may appear unladylike, I know, but I think
it right to stay by Ellen. By the way,”
and Alice spoke rapidly now, “the doctor says
you’ll never get well so long as you keep so
closely in the house. You are able to ride, and
I promised to coax you out to-morrow, if the day is
fine. I shall not take a refusal,” she continued,
as he shook his head. “I am getting quite
vain of my horsemanship. I shall feel quite proud
of your escort, even if I have to tease for it; so,
remember, you are mine for a part of to-morrow.”

Page 118

She drew her hand from his, and with another of her
radiant smiles, swept from the room, leaving him in
a maze of blissful bewilderment. Never till this
morning had a hope entered Hugh’s heart that
Alice Johnson might be won. Except her, there
was not a girl in all the world who had ever awakened
the slightest emotion within his heart, and Alice
had seemed so far removed from him that to dream of
her was worse than useless. She would never esteem
him save as a friend, and until this morning Hugh
had fancied he could be satisfied with that, but there
was something in the way her little fingers twined
themselves around his, something in her manner, which
prompted the wild hope that in an unguarded moment
she had betrayed herself, had permitted him a glimpse
of what was in her mind, only a glimpse, but enough
to make the poor deluded man giddy with happiness.
She, the Golden Haired, could be won, and should be
won.

“My wife, my Alice, my Golden Hair,” he
kept repeating to himself, until, in his weak state,
the perspiration dropped from every pore, and his
mother, when she came to him, asked in much alarm what
was the matter.

He could not tell her of his newly-born joy, so he
answered evasively:

“Rocket is sold to-day. Is not that matter
enough?”

“Poor Hugh, I wish so much that I was rich!”
the mother sighed, as she wiped the sweat drops from
his brow, arranged his pillows more comfortably, and
then, sitting down beside him, said, hesitatingly—­“I
have another letter from ’Lina. Can you
hear it now, or will you read it for yourself?”

It was strange how the mention of ’Lina embittered
at once Hugh’s cup of bliss, making him answer
pettishly:

“She has waited long enough, I think. Give
it to me, please,” and taking the letter that
morning received, he read first that ’Lina was
much obliged for the seventy-five dollars, and thought
they must be growing generous, as she only asked for
fifty.

“What seventy-five dollars? What does she
mean?” Hugh exclaimed, but his mother could
not tell, unless it were that Alice, unknown to them,
had sent more than ’Lina asked for.

This seemed probable, and as it was the only solution
of the mystery, he accepted it as the real one, and
returned to the letter, learning that the bracelet
was purchased, that it could not be told from the lost
one, that she was sporting it on Broadway every day,
that she did not go to the prince’s ball just
for the doctor’s meanness in not procuring a
ticket when he had one offered to him for eighty dollars!

* * * *
*

“I don’t really suppose he could afford
it,” she wrote, “but it made me mad just
the same, and I pouted all day. I saw the ladies,
though, after they were dressed, and that did me some
good, particularly as the Queen of the South, Madam
Le Vert, asked my opinion of her chaste, beautiful
toilet, just as if she had faith in my judgment.

Page 119

“Well, after the fortunate ones were gone, I
went to my room to pout, and directly Mother Richards
sent Johnny up to coax me, whereupon there ensued
a bit of a quarrel, I twitting him about that ambrotype
of a young girl, which Nell Tiffton found at the St.
Nicholas, and which the doctor claimed, seeming greatly
agitated, and saying it was very dear to him, because
the original was dead. Well, I told him of it,
and said if he loved that girl better than me, he
was welcome to have her. ’Lina Worthington
had too may eligible offers to play second fiddle to
any one.

“‘’Lina,’ he said, ’I
will not deceive you, though I meant to do so.
I did love another before ever I heard of you, a fair
young girl, as pure, as innocent as the angels.
She is an angel now, for she is dead. Do not
ask further of her. Let it suffice that I loved
her, that I lost her. I shall never tell you
more of her sad story. Let her never be named
to me again. It was long ago. I have met
you since, have asked and wish you to be my wife,’—­and
so we made it up, and I promised not to speak of my
rival. Pleasant predicament, I am in, but I’ll
worm it out of him yet. I’ll haunt him
with her dead body.”

* * * *
*

“Oh, mother,” and Hugh gasped for breath.
“Is Ad—­can she be anything to us?
Is my blood in her veins?”

“Yes, Hugh, she’s your half-sister.
Forgive me that I made her so,” and the poor
mother wept over the heartless girl. “But
go on,” she whispered. “See where
’Lina is now,” and Hugh read on, learning
that old Mother Richards had returned home, that Anna
had written a sweet, sisterly note, welcoming her
as John’s bride to their love, that she had
answered her in the same gracious strain, heightening
the effect by dropping a few drops of water here and
there, to answer for tears wrung out by Anna’s
sympathy, that Mrs. Ellsworth and her brother, Irving
Stanley, came to the hotel, that Irving had a ticket
to the ball offered him, but declined, just because
he did not believe in balls, that having a little
‘axe to grind,’ she had done her best to
cultivate Mrs. Ellsworth, presuming a great deal on
their courtship, and making herself so agreeable to
her child, a most ugly piece of deformity, that cousin
Carrie, who had hired a furnished house for the winter,
had invited her to spend the season with her, and
she was now snugly ensconced in most delightful quarters
on Twenty-second Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues.

* * * *
*

“Sometimes,” she wrote, “I half
suspect Mrs. Ellsworth did not think I would jump
at her invitation so quick, but I don’t care.
The doctor, for some reason or other, has deferred
our marriage until spring, and dear knows I am not
coming back to horrid Spring Bank any sooner than I
can help.

“By the way, I’m somewhat haunted with
the dread that, after all, Adah may take it into her
willful head to go to Terrace Hill, and I would not
have her for the world. How does Alice get on
with Hugh? I conclude he must be well by this
time. Does he wear his pants inside his cowhides
yet, or have Alice’s blue eyes had a refining
effect upon his pantaloons? Tell him not to set
his heart upon her, for, to my certain knowledge,
Irving Stanley, Esq., has an interest in that quarter,
while she is not indifferent.

Page 120

“He has his young sister Augusta here now.
She has come on to do her shopping in New York, and
is stopping with Mrs. Ellsworth. A fine little
creature, quite stylish, but very puritanical.
Through Augusta I have got acquainted with Lottie
Gardner, a kind of stepniece to the doctor, and excessively
aristocratic. You ought to have seen how coolly
her big, proud, black eyes inspected one. I rather
like her, though. She and Augusta Stanley were
together at Madam ——­’s school
in the city.

“Didn’t Adah say she went there once?
Again I charge you, don’t let her go to Terrace
Hill on any account.

“And one other thing. I shall buy my bridal
trousseau under Mrs. Ellsworth’s supervision.
She has exquisite taste, and Hugh must send the money.
As I told him before, he can sell Mug. Harney
will buy her. He likes pretty darkies.”

* * * *
*

“Oh, horror! can Ad be a woman, with womanly
feelings?” Hugh exclaimed, feeling as if he
hated his sister.

But after a moment he was able to listen while his
mother asked if it would not be better to persuade
Adah not to go to Terrace Hill.

“It may interfere with ’Lina’s plans,”
she said, “and now it’s gone so far, it
seems a pity to have it broken up. It’s—­it’s
very pleasant with ’Lina gone,” and with
a choking sob, Mrs. Worthington laid her face upon
the pillow, ashamed and sorry that the real sentiments
of her heart were thus laid bare.

It was terrible for a mother to feel that her home
would be happier for the absence of a child, and that
child an only daughter, but she did feel so, and it
made her half willing that Dr. Richards should be
deceived. But Hugh shrank from the dishonorable
proceeding.

Mrs. Worthington always yielded to Hugh, and she did
so now, mentally resolving, however, to say a few
words to Adah, relative to her not divulging anything
which could possibly harm ’Lina, such as telling
how poor they were, or anything like that. This
done, Mrs. Worthington felt easier, and as Hugh looked
tired and worried, she left him for a time, having
first called Muggins to gather up the fragments of
’Lina’s letter which Hugh had thrown upon
the carpet.

“Yes, burn every trace of it,” Hugh said,
watching the child as she picked up piece by piece,
and threw them into the grate.

“I means to save dat ar. I’ll play
I has a letter for Miss Alice,” Mug thought,
as she came upon a bit larger than the others, and
unwittingly she hid in her bosom that portion of the
letter referring to herself and Harney! This
done, she too left the room, and Hugh was at last alone.

He had little hope now that he would ever win Alice,
so jealously sure was he that Irving was preferred
before him, and he whispered sadly to himself:

“I can live on just the same, I suppose.
Life will be no more dreary than it was before I knew
her. No, nor half so dreary, for ’it is
better to have loved and lost than not to have loved
at all.’ That is what Adah said once when
I asked what she would give never to have met that
villain.”

Page 121

As it frequently happens that when an individual is
talked or thought about, that individual appears,
so Adah now came in, asking how Hugh was, and if she
should not sit a while with him.

Hugh’s face brightened at once, for next to
Alice he liked best to have Adah with him. With
’Lina’s letter still fresh in his mind
it was very natural for him to think of what was said
of Augusta Stanley, and after Adah had sat a moment,
he asked if she remembered such a person at Madam
Dupont’s school, or Lottie Gardner either.

“Yes, I remember them both,” and Adah
looked up quickly. “Lottie was proud and
haughty, though quite popular with most of the girls,
I believe; but Augusta—­oh, I liked her
so much. Do you know her?”

“No; but Ad, it seems, has ingratiated herself
into the good graces of Mrs. Ellsworth, this Augusta’s
sister. There’s a brother, too’—­”

“Yes, I remember. He came one day with
Augusta, and all the girls were so delighted.
I hardly noticed him myself, for my head was full of
George. It was there I met him first, you know.”

There was a shadow now on Adah’s face, and she
sat silent for some time, thinking of the past, while
Hugh watched the changes of her beautiful face, wondering
what was the mystery which seemed to have shrouded
the whole of her young life.

“You have done me a great deal of good,”
he said; “and sometimes I think it’s wrong
in me to let you go away, when, if I kept you, you
might teach me how to be a good man—­a Christian
man, I mean.”

“Oh, if you only would be one,” and the
light which shone in Adah’s eyes seemed born
of Heaven. “I am going, it is true, but
there is One who will stay with you—­One
who loves you so much.”

He thought she meant Alice, and he grasped her hand,
and exclaimed:

“Loves me, Adah, does she? Say it again!
Does Alice Johnson love me, me? Hugh? Did
she tell you so? Adah,” and Hugh spoke vehemently,
“I have admitted to you what an hour ago I fancied
nothing could wring from me, but I trust to your discretion
not to betray it; certainly not to her, not to Alice,
for, of course, there is no hope. You do not think
there is? You know her better than I,”
and he looked wistfully at Adah, who felt constrained
to answer:

“There might have been, I’m sure, if she
had seen no one else.”

“Then she has—­she does love another?”
and Hugh’s face was white as ashes.

“I do not know that she loves him; she did not
say so,” Adah replied, thinking it better for
Hugh that he should know the whole. “There
was a boy or youth, who saved her life at the peril
of his own, and she remembered him so long, praying
for him daily that God would bring him to her again,
so she could thank him for his kindness.”

Poor Hugh. He saw clearly now how it all was.
He had suffered his uncle, who affected a dislike
for “Hugh,” to call him “Irving.”
He had also, for no reason at all, suffered Alice
to think he was a Stanley, and this was the result.

Page 122

“I can live on just as I did before,”
was again the mental cry of his wrung heart.

How changed were all things now, for the certainty
that Alice never would be his had cast a pall over
everything, and even the autumnal sunshine streaming
through the window seemed hateful to him. Involuntarily
his mind wandered to the sale and to Rocket, perhaps
at that very moment upon the block.

“If I could have kept him, it would have been
some consolation,” he sighed, just as the sound
of hoofs dashing up to the door met his ear.

It was Claib, and just as Hugh was wondering at his
headlong haste, he burst into the room, exclaiming:

“Oh, Mas’r Hugh, ’tain’t no
use now. He’d done sold, Rocket is.
I hearn him knocked down, and then I comed to tell
you, an’ he looked so handsome, too,—­caperin’
like a kitten. They done made me show him off,
for he wouldn’t come for nobody else, but the
minit he fotched a sight of dis chile, he flung ’em
right and left. I fairly cried to see how he
went on.”

There was no color now in Hugh’s face, and his
voice trembled as he asked:

“Who bought him?”

“Harney, in course, bought him for five-fifty.
I tells you they runs him up, somebody did, and once,
when he stood at four hundred and fifty, and I thought
the auction was going to say ‘Gone,’ I
bids myself.”

“You!” and Hugh stared blankly at him.

“I know it wan’t manners, but it came
out ’fore I thought, and Harney, he hits me
a cuff, and tells me to hush my jaw. He got paid,
though, for jes’ then a voice I hadn’t
hearn afore, a wee voice like a girl’s, calls
out five hundred, and ole Harney turn black as tar.
‘Who’s that?’ he said, pushin’
inter the crowd, and like a mad dog yelled out five-fifty,
and then he set to cussin’ who ‘twas biddin’
ag’in him. I hearn them ’round me
say, ‘That fetches it. Rocket’s a
goner,’ when I flung the halter in Harney’s
ugly face, and came off home to tell you. Poor
Mas’r, you is gwine to faint,” and the
well-meaning, but rather impudent Claib, sprang forward
in time to catch and hold his young master, who otherwise
might have fallen to the floor.

Hugh had borne much that day. The sudden hope
that Alice might be won, followed so soon by the certainty
that she could not, had shaken his nerves and tried
his strength cruelly, while the story Claib had told
unmanned him entirely, and this it was which made him
grow so cold and faint, reeling in his chair, and
leaning gladly for support against the sturdy Claib,
who led him to the bed, and then went in quest of Adah.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SALE

There was a crowd of people out that day to attend
the sale of Colonel Tiffton’s household effects.
Even fair ladies, too, came in their carriages, holding
high their aristocratic skirts as they threaded their
way through the rooms where piles of carpeting and
furniture of various kinds lay awaiting the shrill
voice and hammer of the auctioneer, a portly little
man, who felt more for the family than his appearance
would indicate.

Page 123

There had been a long talk that morning between himself
and a young lady, a stranger to him, whose wondrous
beauty had thrilled his heart just as it did every
heart beating beneath a male’s attire. The
lady had seemed a little worried, as she talked, casting
anxious glances up the Lexington turnpike, and asking
several times when the Lexington cars were due.

“It shan’t make no difference. I’ll
take your word,” the auctioneer had said in
reply to some doubts expressed by her. “I’d
trust your face for a million,” and with a profound
bow by way of emphasizing his compliment, the well-meaning
Skinner went out to the group assembled near Rocket
while the lady returned to the upper chamber where
Mrs. Tiffton and Ellen were assembled.

Once Harney’s voice, pitched in its blandest
tone, was heard talking to the ladies, and then Ellen
stopped her ears, exclaiming passionately:

“I hate that man, I hate him. I almost
wish that I could kill him.”

“Hush, Ellen; remember! ’Vengeance
is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,’”
Alice whispered to the excited girl who answered hastily:

“Don’t preach to me now. I’m
too wretched. Wait till you lose everything by
one man’s villainy, then see if you won’t
curse him.”

There was an increased confusion in the yard below,
and Alice knew the sale was about to commence.
The white-haired colonel kept watch while one after
another of his household goods were sold. Inferior
articles they were at first, and the crowd were not
much disposed to bid, but all were dear to the old
man, who groaned each time an article was knocked
off, and so passed effectually from his possession.

The crowd grew weary at last—­they must
have brisker sport than that, if they would keep warm
in that chilly November wind, and cries for the “horses”
were heard.

“They’re going to sell Beauty, Nell.
Poor Nellie, don’t cry,” and the old man
laid his hand on his weeping daughter’s head.

“Colonel Tiffton, this way please,” and
Alice spoke in a whisper. “I want Beauty.
Couldn’t you bid for me, bid all you would be
willing to give if you were bidding for Ellen?”

The colonel looked at her in a kind of dazed, bewildered
way, as if not fully comprehending her, till she repeated
her request; then mechanically he went back to his
post on the balcony, and just as Harney’s last
bid was about to receive the final “gone,”
he raised it twenty dollars, and ere Harney had time
to recover his astonishment, Beauty was disposed of,
and the colonel’s servant Ham led her in triumph
back to the stable.

With a fierce scowl of defiance Harney called for
Rocket. Suspecting something wrong the animal
refused to come out, and planting his fore feet firmly
upon the floor of the stable, kept them all at bay.
With a fierce oath, the brutal Harney gave him a stinging
blow, which made the tender flesh quiver with pain,
but the fiery gleam in the noble animal’s eye
warned him not to repeat it. Suddenly among the
excited group of dusky faces he spied that of Claib,
and bade him lead out the horse.

Page 124

“I can’t. Oh, mas’r, for the
dear—­” Claib began, but Harney’s
riding whip silenced him at once, and he went submissively
in to Rocket, who became as gentle beneath his touch
as a lamb.

Did the sagacious creature think then of Hugh, and
fancy Claib had come to lead him home? We cannot
tell. We only know how proudly he arched his
graceful neck, as with dancing, mincing steps, he gamboled
around Claib, rubbing his nose against the honest
black face, where the tears were standing, and trying
to lick the hands which had fed him so often at Spring
Bank.

Loud were the cries of admiration which hailed his
appearance.

The bids were very rapid, for Rocket was popular,
but Harney bided his time, standing-silently by, with
a look on his face of cool contempt for those who
presumed to think they could be the fortunate ones.
He was prepared to give more than any one else.
Nobody would go above his figure, he had set it so
high—­higher even than Rocket was really
worth. Five hundred and fifty, if necessary.
No one would rise above that, Harney was sure, and
quietly waited until the bids were far between, and
the auctioneer still dwelling upon the last, seemed
waiting expectantly for something.

“I believe my soul the fellow knows I mean to
have that horse,” thought Harney, and with an
air which said, “that settles it,” he called
out in loud, clear tones, “Four hundred,”
thus adding fifty at one bid.

There was a slight movement then in the upper balcony,
an opening of the glass door, and a suppressed whisper
ran through the crowd, as Alice came out and stood
by the colonel’s aide.

The bidding went on briskly now, each bidder raising
a few dollars, till four hundred and fifty was reached,
and then there came a pause, broken only by the voice
of the excited Claib, who, as he confessed to Hugh,
had ventured to speak for himself, and was rewarded
for his temerity by a blow from Harney. With
that blow still tingling about his ears and confusing
his senses, Claib could not well tell whence or from
whom came that silvery, half-tremulous voice, which
passed so like an electric shock through the eager
crowd, and rousing Harney to a perfect fury.

“Five hundred.”

There was no mistaking the words, and with a muttered
curse at the fair bidder shrinking behind the colonel,
and blushing, as if in shame, Harney yelled out his
big price, all he had meant to give. He was mad
with rage, for he knew well for whom that fair Northern
girl was interested. He had heard much of Alice
Johnson—­had seen her occasionally in the
Spring Bank carriage as she stopped in Frankfort;
and once she had stopped before his store, asking,
with such a pretty grace, that the piece of goods
she wished to look at might be brought to her for
inspection, that he had determined to take it himself,
but remembered his dignity as half millionaire, and
sent his head clerk instead.

Page 125

Beneath Harney’s coarse nature there was a strange
susceptibility to female beauty, and neither the lustrous
blue of Alice’s large eyes, nor yet the singular
sweetness of her voice, as she thanked the clerk for
his trouble, had been forgotten. He had heard
that she was rich—­how rich he did not know—­but
fancied she might possibly be worth a few paltry thousands,
not more, and so, of course, she was not prepared to
compete with him, who counted his gold by hundreds
of thousands. Five hundred was all she would
give for Rocket. How, then was he surprised and
chagrined when, with a coolness equal to his own, she
kept steadily on, scarcely allowing the auctioneer
to repeat his bid before she increased it, and once,
womanlike, raising on her own.

“Fie, Harney! Shame to go against a girl!
Better give it up, for don’t you see she’s
resolved to have him? She’s worth half Massachusetts,
too, they say.”

These and like expressions met Harney on every side,
until at last, as he paused to answer some of them,
growing heated in the altercation, and for the instant
forgetting Rocket, the auctioneer brought the hammer
down with a click which made Harney leap from the ground,
for by that sound he knew that Rocket was sold to
Alice Johnson for six hundred dollars!

Meantime Alice had sought the friendly shelter of
Ellen’s room, where the tension of nerve endured
so long gave way, and sinking upon the sofa she fainted,
just as down the Lexington turnpike came the man looked
for so long in the earlier part of the day. She
could not err, in Mr. Liston’s estimation, and
Alice grew calm again, and in a hurried consultation
explained to him more definitely than her letter had
done, what her wishes were—­Colonel Tiffton
must not be homeless in his old age. There were
ten thousand dollars lying in the ——­
Bank in Massachusetts, so she would have Mosside purchased
in her name for Colonel Tiffton, not as a gift, for
he would not accept it, but as a loan, to be paid
at his convenience. This was Alice’s plan,
and Mr. Liston acted upon it at once. Taking
his place in the motley assemblage, he bid quietly,
steadily, until at last Mosside, with its appurtenances,
belonged ostensibly to him, and the half-glad, half-disappointed
people wondered greatly who Mr. Jacob Liston could
be, or from what quarter of the globe he had suddenly
dropped into their midst.

Colonel Tiffton knew that nearly everything had been
purchased by him, and felt glad that a stranger rather
than a neighbor was to occupy what had been so dear
to him, and that his servants would not be separated.
With Ellen it was different. A neighbor might
allow them to remain there a time, she said, while
a stranger would not, and she was weeping bitterly,
when, as the sound of voices and the tread of feet
gradually died away from the yard below, Alice came
to her side, and bending over her, said softly, “Could
you bear some good news now—­bear to know
who is to inhabit Mosside?”

Page 126

“Good news?” and Ellen looked up wonderingly.

“Yes, good news, I think you will call it,”
and then as deliberately as possible Alice told what
had been done, and that the colonel was still to occupy
his old home, “As my tenant, if you like,”
she said to him, when he began to demur.

When at last it was clear to the old man, he laid
his hand upon the head of the young girl and whispered
huskily, “I cannot thank you as I would, or
tell you what’s in my heart, God bless you, Alice
Johnson.”

Alice longed to say a word to him of the God to whom
he had thus paid tribute, but she felt the time was
hardly then, and after a few more assurances to Ellen
started for Spring Bank, where Mrs. Worthington and
Adah were waiting for her.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE RIDE

They had kept it all from Hugh, telling him only that
a stranger had purchased Mosside. He had not
asked for Rocket, or even mentioned him, though his
pet was really uppermost in his mind, and when he awoke
next morning from his feverish sleep and remembered
Alice’s proposal to ride, he said to himself,
“I cannot go, much as I might enjoy it.
No other horse would carry me as gently as Rocket.
Oh! Rocket!”

It was a bright, balmy morning, and Hugh, as he walked
slowly to the window and inhaled the fragrant air,
felt that it would do him good, “But I shan’t
go,” he said, and when, after breakfast was over,
Alice came, reminding him of the ride, he began an
excuse, but his resolution quickly gave way before
her sprightly arguments, and he finally assented,
saying, however: “You must not expect a
gay cavalier, for I am still too weak, and I have
no horse fit to ride with you, at least.”

“Yes, I know,” and Alice ran gayly to
her room and donned her riding dress, wondering what
Hugh would say and how Rocket would act.

He was out in the back yard now, pawing and curvetting,
and rubbing his nose against all who came near him,
while Claib was holding him by his new bridle and
talking to him of Mas’r Hugh.

Even an ugly woman is improved by a riding costume,
and Alice, beautiful though she was, looked still
more beautiful in her closely-fitting habit.

“There, I’m ready,” she said, running
down to Hugh.

At sight of her his face flushed, while a half sigh
escaped him as he thought how proud he would once
have been to ride with her; but that was in the days
of Rocket, when rider and horse were called the best
in the county.

“Where’s Jim?” Hugh asked, glancing
around in quest of the huge animal he expected to
mount, and which he had frequently likened to a stone
wall.

“Claib has your horse. He’s coming,”
and with great apparent unconcern Alice worked industriously
at one of her fairy gantlets.

Suddenly Adah flew to Hugh’s side, and said,
eagerly:

“Hugh, please whistle once, just as you used
to do for Rocket—­just once, and let Miss
Johnson hear you.”

Page 127

Hugh felt as if she were mocking him, but he yielded,
while like a gleam of lightning the shadow of a suspicion
flitted across his mind. It was a loud, shrill
whistle, penetrating even to the woods, and the instant
the old familiar sound fell on Rocket’s ear
he went tearing around the house, answering that call
with the neigh he had been wont to give when summoned
by his master. Utterly speechless, Hugh stood
gazing at him as he came up, his neck arched proudly,
and his silken mane flowing as gracefully as on the
day when he was led away to Colonel Tiffton’s
stall.

“Won’t somebody tell me what it means?”
Hugh gasped, stretching out his hands toward Rocket,
who even attempted to lick them.

At this point Alice stepped forward, and taking Rocket’s
bridle, laid it across Hugh’s lap, saying, softly:

“It means that Rocket is yours, purchased by
a friend, saved from Harney, for you. Mount him,
and see if he rides as easily as ever. I am impatient
to be off.”

But had Hugh’s life depended upon it, he could
not have mounted Rocket then. He knew the friend
was Alice, and the magnitude of the act overpowered
him.

“Oh, Miss Johnson,” he cried, “what
made you do it? It must not be. I cannot
suffer it.”

“Not to please me?” and Alice’s
face wore its most winning look. “It’s
been my fixed determination ever since I heard of Rocket,
and knew how much you loved him. I was never
so happy doing an act in my life, and now you must
not spoil it all by refusing.”

“As a loan, then, not as a gift,” Hugh
whispered. “It shall not be a gift.”

“It need not,” Alice rejoined, as a sudden
plan for carrying out another project crossed her
mind. “You shall pay for Rocket if you like,
and I’ll tell you how on our ride. Shall
we go?”

Once out upon the highway, where there were no mud
holes to shun, no gates to open and shut, Hugh broached
the subject of Rocket again, when Alice told him unhesitatingly
how he could, if he would, pay for him and leave her
greatly his debtor. The scrap of paper, which
Muggins had saved from the letter thrown by Hugh upon
the carpet, had been placed by the queer little child
in an old envelope, which she called her letter to
Miss Alice. Handing it to her that morning with
the utmost gravity, she had asked her to read “Mug’s
letter,” and Alice had read the brief lines
written by ’Lina: “Hugh must send
the money, as I told him before. He can sell
Mug; Harney likes pretty darkies.” There
was a cold, sick feeling at Alice’s heart, a
shrinking with horror from ’Lina Worthington,
and then she came to a decision. Mug should be
hers, and so, as skillfully as she could she brought
it around, that having taken a great fancy both to
Lulu and Muggins, she wished to buy them both, giving
whatever Hugh honestly thought they were worth.
Rocket, if he pleased, should be taken as part or
whole payment for Mug, and so cease to be a gift.

Page 128

“I have no mercenary motives in the matter,”
she said, “With me they will be free, and this,
I am sure, will be an inducement for you to consent
to my proposal.”

A slave master can love his bond servant, and Hugh
loved the little Mug so much that the idea of parting
with her as he surely must at some future time if
he assented to Alice’s plan, made him hesitate.
But he decided at last, influenced not so much by
need of money as by knowing how much real good the
exchange of ownership would be to the two young girls.
In return for Rocket, Alice should have Muggins, while
for Lulu she might give what she liked.

“Heaven knows,” he added, “it is
not my nature to hold any one in bondage, and I shall
gladly hail the day which sees the negro free.
But our slaves are our property. Take them from
us and we are ruined wholly. Miss Johnson, do
you honestly believe that one in forty of those Northern
abolitionists would deliberately give up ten—­twenty—­fifty
thousand dollars, just because the thing valued at
that was man and not beast? No, indeed.
Southern people, born and brought up in the midst of
slavery, can’t see it as the North does, and
there’s where the mischief lies.”

He had wandered from Lulu and Muggins to the subject
which then, far more than the North believed, was
agitating the Southern mind. Then they talked
of ’Lina, Hugh telling Alice of her intention
to pass the winter with Mrs. Ellsworth, and speaking
also of Irving Stanley.

“By the way, Ad writes that Irving was interested
in you, and you in him,” Hugh said, rather abruptly,
stealing a glance at Alice, who answered frankly:

“I can hardly say that I know much of him, though
once, long ago—­”

She paused here, and Hugh waited anxiously for what
she would say next. But Alice, changing her mind,
only added:

“I esteem Mr. Stanley very highly. He is
a gentleman, a scholar and a Christian.”

“You like him better for that, I suppose—­better
for being a Christian, I mean,” Hugh replied,
a little bitterly.

“Oh, yes, so much better,” and reining
her horse closer to Hugh, Alice rode very slowly,
while in earnest tones she urged on Hugh the one great
thing he needed. “You are not offended?”
she asked, as he continued silent.

“No, oh, no. I never had any religious
teaching, only once; an angel flitted across my path,
leaving a track of glorious sunshine, but the clouds
have been there since, and the sunshine is most all
gone.”

Alice knew he referred to the maiden of whose existence
Mug had told her, and she longed to ask him of her.
Who was she, and where was she now? Alas, that
she should have been so deceived, or that Hugh, when
she finally did ask, “Who was the angel that
crossed his path?” should answer evasively.

Just before turning into the Spring Bank fields, a
horseman came dashing down the pike, checking his
steed a moment as he drew near, and then, with a savage
frown, spurring on his foam-covered horse, muttering
between his teeth a curse on Hugh Worthington.

Page 129

“That was Harney?” Alice said, stopping
a moment outside the gate to look after him as he
went tearing down the pike.

“Yes, that was Harney,” Hugh replied.
“There’s a political meeting of some kind
in Versailles to-day, and I suppose he is going there
to raise his voice with those who are denouncing the
Republicans so bitterly, and threatening vengeance
if they succeed.”

“The South will hardly be foolish enough to
secede. Why, the North would crush them at once,”
returned Alice, still looking after Harney, as if
she knew she were gazing after one destined to figure
conspicuously in the fast approaching rebellion, his
very name a terror and dread to the loyal, peace-loving
citizens of Kentucky.

CHAPTER XXIX

HUGH AND ALICE

Three weeks had passed away since that memorable ride.
Mr. Liston, after paying to the proper recipients
the money due for Mosside, had returned to Boston,
leaving the neighborhood to gossip of Alice’s
generosity, and to wonder how much she was worth.
It was a secret yet that Lulu and Muggins were hers,
but the story of Rocket was known, and numerous were
the surmises as to what would be the result of her
daily, familiar intercourse with Hugh. Already
was the effect of her presence visible in his improved
appearance, his gentleness of manner, his care to observe
all the little points of etiquette never practiced
by him before, and his attention to his own personal
appearance. His trousers were no longer worn
inside his boots, or his soft hat jammed into every
conceivable shape, while Ellen Tiffton, who came often
to Spring Bank, and was supposed to be good authority,
pronounced him almost as stylish looking as any man
in Woodford.

To Hugh, Alice was everything, and he did not know
himself how much he loved her, save when he thought
of Irving Stanley, and then the keen, sharp pang of
jealous pain which wrung his heart told him how strong
was the love he bore her. And Alice, in her infatuation
concerning the mysterious Golden Hair, did much to
feed the flame. He was to her like a beloved
brother; indeed, she had one day playfully entered
into a compact with him that she should be his sister,
and never dreaming of the mischief she was doing,
she treated him with all the familiarity of a pure,
loving sister. It was Alice who rode with him
almost daily. It was Alice who sang his favorite
songs. It was Alice who brought his armchair
in the evening when his day’s work was over;
Alice who worked his slippers; Alice who brushed his
coat when he was going to town; Alice who sometimes
tied his cravat, standing on tiptoe, with her fair
face so fearfully near to his that all his powers of
self-denial were needed to keep from touching his
lips to the smooth brow gleaming so white and fair
before his eyes.

Page 130

Sometimes the wild thought crossed his mind that possibly
he might win her for himself, but it was repudiated
as soon as formed, and so, between hope and a kind
of blissful despair, blissful so long as Alice stayed
with him as she was now, Hugh lived on, until at last
the evening came when Adah was to leave Spring Bank
on the morrow. She had intended going immediately
after the sale at Mosside, but Willie had been ailing
ever since, and that had detained her. Everything
which Alice could do for her had been done. Old
Sam, at thoughts of parting with his little charge,
had cried his dim eyes dimmer yet. Mrs. Worthington,
too, had wept herself nearly sick, for now that the
parting drew near she began to feel how dear to her
was the young girl who had come to them so strangely.

“More like a daughter you seem to me,”
she had said to Adah, in speaking of her going; “and
once I had a wild—­” here she stopped,
leaving the sentence unfinished, for she did not care
to tell Adah of the shock it had given her when Hugh
first pointed out to her the faint mark on Adah’s
forehead.

It was fainter now even than then, for with increasing
color and health it seemed to disappear, and Mrs.
Worthington could scarcely see it, when with a caressing
movement of her hand she put the silken hair back from
Adah’s brow and kissed the bluish veins.

“There is none there. It was all a fancy,”
she murmured to herself, and then thinking of ’Lina,
she said to Adah what she had all along meant to say,
that if the Richards’ family should question
her of ’Lina, she was to divulge nothing to
her disparagement, whether she were rich or poor,
high or low. “You must not, of course, tell
any untruths. I do not ask that, but I—­oh,
I sometimes wish they need not know that you came from
here, as that would save all trouble, and ’Lina
is so—­so—­”

Mrs. Worthington did not finish the sentence, for
Adah instantly silenced her by answering frankly:

“I do not intend they shall know, not at present
certainly.”

Adah retired early, as did both Mrs. Worthington and
Densie, for all were unusually tired; only Hugh, as
he supposed, was up, and he sat by the parlor fire
where they had passed the evening. He was very
sorry Adah was going, but it was not so much of her
he was thinking as of Alice. Had she dreamed
of his real feelings, she never would have done what
she did, but she was wholly unconscious of it, and
so, when, late that night, she returned to the parlor
in quest of something she had left, and found him
sitting there alone, she paused a moment on the threshold,
wondering if she had better join him or go away.
His back was toward her, and he did not hear her light
step, so intently was he gazing into the burning grate,
and trying to frame the words he should say if ever
he dared tell Alice Johnson of his love.

There was much girlish playfulness in Alice’s
nature, and sliding across the carpet, she clasped
both her hands before his eyes, and exclaimed:

Page 131

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Hugh started as suddenly as if some apparition had
appeared before him, and blushing guiltily, clasped
and held upon his face the little soft, warm hands
which did not tremble, but lay still beneath his own.
It was Providence which sent her there, he thought;
Providence indicating that he might speak, and he
would.

“I am glad you have come. I wish to talk
with you,” he said, drawing her down into a
chair beside him, and placing his arm lightly across
its back. “What sent you here, Alice?
I supposed you had retired,” he continued, bending
upon her a look which made her slightly uncomfortable.

But she soon recovered, and answered laughingly:

“I, too, supposed you had retired. I came
for my scissors, and finding you here alone, thought
I would startle you, but you have not told me yet
of what you were thinking.”

“Of the present, past and future,” he
replied; then, letting his hand drop from the back
of the chair upon her shoulder, he continued:
“May I talk freely with you? May I tell
you of myself, what I was, what I am, what I hope
to be?”

Her cheeks burned dreadfully, and her voice was not
quite steady, as, rising from her seat, she said:

“I like a stool better than this chair.
I’ll bring it and sit at your feet. There,
now I am ready,” and seating herself at a safe
distance from him, Alice waited for him to commence.

She grew tired of waiting, and turning her lustrous
eyes upon him, said gently:

“You seem unhappy about something. Is it
because Adah leaves to-morrow? I am sorry, too;
sorry for me, sorry for you; but, Hugh, I will do what
I can to fill her place. I will be the sister
you need so much. Don’t look so wretched;
it makes me feel badly to see you.”

Alice’s sympathy was getting the better of her
again, and she moved her stool a little nearer to
Hugh, while she involuntarily laid her hand upon his
knee. That decided him; and while his heart throbbed
almost to bursting, he began by saying:

“I am in rather a gloomy mood to-night, I’ll
admit. I do feel Adah’s leaving us very
much; but that is not all. I have wished to talk
with you a long time—­wished to tell you
how I feel. May I, Alice?—­may I open
to you my whole heart, and show you what is there?”

For a moment Alice felt a thrill of fear—­a
dread of what the opening of his heart to her might
disclose. Then she remembered Golden Hair, whose
name she had never heard him breathe, save as it passed
his delirious lips. It was of her he would talk;
he would tell her of that hidden love whose existence
she felt sure was not known at Spring Bank. Alice
would rather not have had this confidence, for the
deep love-life of such as Hugh Worthington seemed
to her a sacred thing; but he looked so white, so
careworn, so much as if it would be a relief, that
Alice answered at last:

“Yes, Hugh, you may tell, and I will listen.”

Page 132

He began by telling Alice first of his early boyhood,
uncheered by a single word of sympathy save as it
came from dear Aunt Eunice, who alone understood the
wayward boy whom people thought so bad.

“Even she did not quite understand me,”
he said; “she did not dream of that hidden recess
in my heart which yearned so terribly for a human
love—­for something or somebody to check
the evil passions so rapidly gaining the ascendant.
Neither did she know how often, in the silent night,
the boy they thought so flinty, so averse to womankind,
wept for the love he had no hope of gaining.

“Then mother and Ad came to Spring Bank, and
that opened to me a new era. In my odd way, I
loved my mother so much—­so much; but Ad—­say,
Alice, is it wicked in me if I can’t love Ad?”

“She is your sister,” was Alice’s
reply; and Hugh rejoined:

“Yes—­my sister. I’m sorry
for it, even, if it’s wicked to be sorry.
She gave me back only scorn and bitter words, until
my heart closed up against her, and I harshly judged
all others by her—­all but one!” and
Hugh’s voice grew very low and tender in its
tone, while Alice felt that now he was nearing the
Golden Hair.

“Away off in New England, among the Yankee hills,
there was a pure, white blossom growing; a blossom
so pure, so fair, that few, very few, were worthy
even so much as to look upon it, as day by day it unfolded
some new beauty. There was nothing to support
this flower but a single frail parent stalk, which
snapped asunder one day, and Blossom was left alone.
It was a strange idea, transplanting it to another
soil; for the atmosphere of Spring Bank was not suited
to such as she. But she came, and, as by magic,
the whole atmosphere was changed—­changed
at least to one—­the bad, wayward Hugh,
who dared to love this fair young girl with a love
stronger than his life. For her he would do anything,
and beneath her influence he did improve rapidly.
He was conscious of it himself—­conscious
of a greater degree of self-respect—­a desire
to be what she would like to have him.

“She was very, very beautiful; more so than
anything Hugh had ever looked upon. Her face
was like an angel’s face, and her hair—­much
like yours, Alice;” and he laid his hand on
the bright head, now bent down, so that he could not
see that face so like an angel’s.

The little hand, too, had slid from his knee, and,
fastlocked within the other, was buried in Alice’s
lap, as she listened with throbbing heart to the story
Hugh was telling.

“In all the world there was nothing so dear
to Hugh as this young girl. He thought of her
by day and dreamed of her by night, seeing always in
the darkness her face, with its eyes of blue bending
over him—­hearing the music of her voice,
like the falling of distant water, and even feeling
the soft touch of her hands as he fancied them laid
upon his brow. She was good, too, as beautiful;
and it was this very goodness which won on Hugh so
fast, making him pray often that he might be worthy
of her—­for, Alice, he came at last to dream
that he could win her; she was so kind to him—­she
spoke to him so softly, and, by a thousand little
acts, endearing herself to him more and more.

Page 133

“Heaven forgive her if she misled him all this
while; but she did not. It were worse than death
to think she did—­to know I’ve told
you this in vain—­have offered you my heart
only to have it thrust back upon me as something you
do not want. Speak, Alice! in mercy, speak!
Can it be that I’m mistaken?”

Alice saw how she had unwittingly led him on, and
her white lips quivered with pain. Lifting up
her head at last, she exclaimed:

“You don’t mean me, Hugh! Oh, you
don’t mean me?”

“Yes, darling,” and he clasped in his
own the hand raised imploringly toward him. “Yes,
darling, I mean you. Will you be my wife?”

Alice had never before heard a voice so earnest, so
full of meaning, as the one now pleading with her
to be what she could not be. She must do something,
and sliding from her stool she sank upon her knees—­her
proper attitude—­upon her knees before Hugh,
whom she had wronged so terribly, and burying her
face in Hugh’s own hands, she sobbed:

“Oh, Hugh, Hugh! you don’t know what you
ask. I love you dearly, but only as my brother—­believe
me, Hugh, only as a brother. I wanted one so
much—­one of my own, I mean; but God denied
that wish, and gave me you instead. I’m
sorry I ever came here, but I cannot go away.
I’ve learned to love my Kentucky home.
Let me stay just the same. Let me really be what
I thought I was, your sister. You will not send
me away?”

She looked up at him now, but quickly turned away,
for the expression of his white, haggard face was
more than she could bear, and she knew there was a
pang, keener even than any she had felt, a pang which
must be terrible, to crush a strong man as Hugh was
crushed.

“Forgive me, Hugh,” she said, as he did
not speak, but sat gazing at her in a kind of stunned
bewilderment. “You would not have me for
your wife, if I did not love you?”

“Never, Alice, never!” he answered.
“But it is not any easier to bear. I don’t
know why I asked you, why I dared hope that you could
think of me. I might have known you could not.
Nobody does. I cannot win their love. I
don’t know how.”

Alice neither looked up nor moved, only sobbed piteously,
and this more than aught else helped Hugh to choke
down his own sorrow for the sake of comforting her.
The sight of her distress moved him greatly, for he
knew it was grief that she had so cruelly misled him.

“Alice, darling,” he said again, this
time as a mother would soothe her child. “Alice,
darling, it hurts me more to see you thus than your
refusal did. I am not wholly selfish in my love.
I’d rather you should be happy than to be happy
myself. I would not for the world take to my
bosom an unwilling wife. I should be jealous even
of my own caresses, jealous lest the very act disgusted
her more and more. You did not mean to deceive
me. It was I that deceived myself. I forgive
you fully, and ask you to forget that to-night has
ever been. It cut me sorely at first, Alice,
to hear you tell me so, but I shall get over it; the
wound will heal.”

Page 134

“Oh, Hugh, don’t; you break my heart.
I’d rather you should scorn, or even hate me,
for the sorrow I have brought. Such unselfish
kindness will kill me,” Alice sobbed, for never
had she been so touched as by this insight into the
real character of the man she had refused.

He would not hold her long in his arms, though it
were bliss to do so, and putting her gently in the
chair, he leaned his own poor sick head upon the mantel,
while Alice watched him with streaming eyes and an
aching heart, which even then half longed to give itself
into his keeping. At last it was her turn to
speak, hers the task to comfort. The prayer she
had inwardly breathed for guidance to act aright had
not been unheard, and with a strange calmness she
arose, and laying her hand on Hugh’s arm, bade
him be seated, while she told him what she had to say.
He obeyed her, sinking into the offered chair, and
then standing before him, she began:

“You do not wish me to go away, you say.
I have no desire to go, except it should be better
for you. Even though I may not be your wife, I
can, perhaps, minister to your happiness; and, Hugh,
we will forget to-night, forget what has occurred,
and be to each other what we were before, brother
and sister. There must be no particular perceptible
change of manner, lest others should suspect what
has passed between us. Do you agree to this?”

He bowed his head, and Alice drew a step nearer to
him, hesitating a moment ere she continued:

“You speak of a rival. I do not know that
you have one. Sure it is I am bound to no one
by any pledge, or promise, or tie, unless it be a tie
of gratitude.”

Hugh glanced up quickly now, and the words, “You
are mistaken; it was not Irving Stanley,” trembled
on his lips, but his strong will fought them back,
and Alice went on.

“I will be frank with you, and say that I have
seen one who pleased me, both for the noble qualities
he possessed, and because I had thought so much of
meeting him, of expressing to him my thanks for a great
favor done when I was only a child. There’s
a look in your face like his; you remind me of him
often; and, Hugh—­” the little hand
pressed more closely on Hugh’s shoulder, while
Alice’s breath came heavily, “And, Hugh,
it may be, that in time I can conscientiously give
you a different answer from what I did to-night.
I may love as your wife should love you; and—­and,
Hugh, if I do, I’ll tell you so at the proper
time.”

There was a gleam of sunshine now to illumine the
thick darkness, and, in the first moments of his joy
Hugh wound his arm around the slight form, and tried
to bring it nearer to him. But Alice stepped back
and answered:

“No, Hugh, that would be wrong. It may
be I shall never come to love you save as I love you
now, but I’ll try—­I will try,”
and unmindful of her charge to him, Alice parted the
damp curls clustering around his forehead, and looked
into his face with an expression which made his heart
bound and throb with the sudden hope that even now
she loved him better than she supposed.

Page 135

It was growing very late, and the clock in the adjoining
room struck one ere Alice bade Hugh good-night, saying
to him:

“No one must know of this. We’ll
be just the same to each other as we have been.”

“Yes, just the same, if that can be,”
Hugh answered, and so they parted.

CHAPTER XXX

ADAH’S JOURNEY

The night express from Rochester to Albany was crowded.
Every car was full, or seemed to be, and the clamorous
bell rang out its first summons for all to get on
board, just as a pale, frightened-looking woman, bearing
in her slender arms a sleeping boy, whose little face
showed signs of suffering, stepped upon the platform
of the rear carriage, and looked wistfully in at the
long, dark line of passengers filling every seat.
Wearily, anxiously, she had passed through every car,
beginning at the first, her tired eyes scanning each
occupant, as if mutely begging some one to have pity
on her ere exhausted nature failed entirely, and she
sank fainting to the floor. None had heeded that
silent appeal, though many had marked the pallor of
her girlish face, and the extreme beauty of the baby
features nestling in her bosom. She could not
hold out much longer, and when she reached the last
car and saw that, too, was full, the delicate chin
quivered perceptibly, and a tear glistened in the
long eyelashes, sweeping the colorless cheek.

Slowly she passed up the aisle until she came to where
there was indeed a vacant seat, only a gentleman’s
shawl was piled upon it, and he, the gentleman, looking
so unconcernedly from the window, and apparently oblivious
of her close proximity to him, would not surely object
to her sitting there. How the tired woman did
wish he would turn toward her, would give some token
that she was welcome, would remove his heavy plaid,
and say to her courteously, “Sit here, madam.”
But no, his eyes were only intent on the darkness
without; he had no care for her, Adah, though he knew
she was there.

The oil lamp was burning dimly, and the girl’s
white face was lost in the shadow, when the young
man first glanced at her, so he had no suspicion of
the truth, though a most indefinable sensation crept
over him as he heard the timid footfall, and the rustling
of female garments as Adah Hastings drew near with
her boy in her arms. He knew she stopped before
him; he knew, too, why she stopped, and for a brief
instant his better nature bade him be a man and offer
her what he knew she wanted. But only for an
instant, and then his selfishness prevailed. “He
would not seem to see her, he would not be bothered
by a woman with a brat. If there was anything
he hated it was a woman traveling with a young one,
a squalling young one. They would never catch
his wife, when he had one, doing a thing so unladylike.
A car was no place for children. He hated the
whole of them.”

Adah passed on, her weary sigh falling distinctly
on his ear, but falling to awaken a feeling of remorse
for his unmanly conduct.

Page 136

“I’m glad she’s gone. I can’t
be bothered,” was his mental comment as he settled
himself more comfortably, feeling a glow of satisfaction
when the train began to move, and he knew no more
women with their babies would be likely to trouble
him.

With that first heavy strain of the machinery Adah
lost her balance, and would have fallen headlong but
for the friendly hand put forth to save the fall.

“Take my seat, miss. It is not very convenient,
but it is better than none. I can find another.”

It was the friendliest voice imaginable which said
these words to Adah, and the kind tone in which they
were uttered wrung the hot tears at once from her
eyes. She did not look up at him. She only
knew that some one, a gentleman, had arisen and was
bending over her; that a hand, large, white and warm,
was laid upon her shoulder, putting her gently into
the narrow seat next the saloon; that the same hand
took from her and hung above her head the little satchel
which was so much in her way, and that the manly voice,
so sympathetic in its tone, asked if she would be too
warm so near the fire.

She did not know there was a fire. She only knew
that she had found a friend, and with the delicious
feeling of safety which the knowledge brought, the
tension of her nerves gave way, and burying her head
on Willie’s face she wept for a moment silently.
Then, lifting it up, she tried to thank her benefactor,
looking now at him for the first time, and feeling
half overawed to find him so tall, so stylish, so
exceedingly refined and aristocratic in every look
and action.

Irving Stanley was a passenger on that train, bound
for Albany. Like Dr. Richards, he had hoped to
enjoy a whole seat, even though it were not a very
comfortable one, but when he saw how pale and tired
Adah was, he arose at once to offer his seat.
He heard her sweet, low voice as she tried to thank
him. He saw, too, the little, soft, white hands,
holding so fast to Willie. Was he her brother
or her son? She was young to be his mother.
Perhaps she was his sister; but, no, there was no mistaking
the mother-love shining out from the brown eyes turned
so quickly upon the boy when he moaned, as if in pain,
and seemed about to waken.

“He’s been sick most all the way,”
she said. “There’s something the
matter with his ear, I think, as he complains of that.
Do children ever die with the earache?”

Irving Stanley hardly thought they did. At all
events, he never heard of such a case, and then, after
suggesting a remedy, should the pain return, he left
his new acquaintance.

“A part of your seat, sir, if you please,”
and Irving’s voice was rather authoritative
than otherwise, as he claimed the half of what the
doctor was monopolizing.

It was of no use for Dr. Richards to pretend he was
asleep, for Irving spoke so like a man who knew what
he was doing, that the doctor was compelled to yield,
and turning about, recognized his Saratoga acquaintance.
The recognition was mutual, and after a few natural
remarks, Irving explained how he had given his seat
to a lady, who seemed ready to drop with fatigue and
anxiety concerning her little child, who was suffering
from the earache.

Page 137

“By the way, doctor,” he added, “you
ought to know the remedy for such ailments. Suppose
you prescribe in case it returns. I do pity that
young woman.”

Dr. Richards stared at him in astonishment.

“I know but little about babies or their aches,”
he answered at last, just as a scream of pain reached
his ear, accompanied by a suppressed effort on the
mother’s part to soothe her suffering child.

The pain must have been intolerable, for the little
fellow, in his agony, writhed from Adah’s lap
and sank upon the floor, his waxen hand pressed convulsively
to his ear, and his whole form quivering with anguish
as he cried, “Oh, ma! ma! ma! ma!”

The hardest heart could scarce withstand that scene,
and many now gathered near, offering advice and help,
while even Dr. Richards turned toward the group gathering
by the door, experiencing a most unaccountable sensation
as that baby cry smote on his ear. Foremost among
those who offered aid was Irving Stanley. His
was the voice which breathed comfort to the weeping
Adah, his the hand extended to take up little Willie,
his the arms which held and soothed the struggling
boy, his the mind which thought of everything available
that could possibly bring ease.

“Who’ll give me a cigar? I do not
use them myself. Ask him,” he said, pointing
to the doctor, who mechanically took a fine Havana
from the case and half-grudgingly handed it to the
lady, who hurried back with it to Irving Stanley.

To break it up and place it in Willie’s ear
was the work of a moment, and ere long the fierce
outcries ceased as Willie grew easier and lay quietly
in Irving Stanley’s arms.

“I’ll take him now,” and Adah put
out her hands; but Willie refused to go, and clung
closer to Mr. Stanley, who said, laughingly: “You
see that I am preferred. He is too heavy for
you to hold. Please trust him to me, while you
get the rest you need.”

And Adah yielded to that voice as if it were one which
had a right to say what she must do, and leaning back
against the window, rested her tired head upon her
hand, while Irving carried Willie to his seat beside
the doctor! There was a slight sneer on the doctor’s
face as he saw the little boy.

“You don’t like children, I reckon,”
Irving said, as the doctor drew back from the little
feet which unconsciously touched his lap.

“No, I hate them,” was the answer, spoken
half-savagely, for at that moment a tiny hand was
deliberately laid on his, as Willie showed a disposition
to be friendly. “I hate them,” and
the little hand was pushed rudely off.

Wonderingly the soft, large eyes of the child looked
up to his. Something in their expression riveted
the doctor’s gaze as by a spell. There
were tears in the baby’s eyes, and the pretty
lip began to quiver at the harsh indignity. The
doctor’s finer feelings, if he had any, were
touched, and muttering to himself, “I’m
a brute,” he slouched his riding cap still lower
down upon his forehead, and turning away to the window,
relapsed into a gloomy reverie.

Page 138

As they drew near to Albany, another piercing shriek
from Willie arose even above the noise of the train.
The paroxysms of pain had returned with such severity
that the poor infant’s face became a livid purple,
while Adah’s tears dropped upon it like rain.
Again the sympathetic women gathered around, again
Dr. Richards, aroused from his uneasy sleep, muttered
invectives against children in general and this one
in particular, while again Irving Stanley hastened
to the rescue, his the ruling mind which overmastered
the others, planning what should be done, and seeing
that his plans were executed.

“You cannot go on this morning. Your little
boy must have rest and medical advice,” he said
to Adah, when at last the train stopped in Albany.
“I have a few moments to spare. I will see
that you are comfortable. You are going to Snowdon,
I think you said. There is an acquaintance of
mine on board who is also bound for Snowdon. I
might—­”

Irving Stanley paused here, for certain doubts arose
in his mind, touching the doctor’s willingness
to be troubled with strangers.

“Oh, I’d rather go on alone,” Adah
exclaimed, as she guessed what he had intended saying.

“It’s quite as well, I reckon,”
was Mr. Stanley’s reply, and taking Willie in
his arms, he conducted Adah to the nearest hotel.

“If you please, you will not engage a very expensive
room for me. I can’t afford it,”
Adah said, timidly, as she followed her conductor into
the parlor of the Delavan.

She was poor, then. Irving would hardly have
guessed it from her appearance, but this frank avowal
which many would not have made, only increased his
respect for her, while he wished so much that she might
have one of the handsome sitting-rooms, of whose locality
he knew so well.

It was a cozy, pleasant little chamber into which
she was finally ushered, too nice, Adah feared, half
trembling for the bill when she should ask for it,
and never dreaming that just one-half the price had
been paid by Irving, whose kind heart prompted him
to the generous act.

There were but a few moments now ere he must leave,
and standing by her side, with her little hand in
his, he said:

“The meeting with you has been to me a pleasant
incident, and I shall not soon forget it. I trust
we may meet again. There is my card. I am
acquainted North, South, East and West. Perhaps
I know your husband. You have one?” he
added quickly, as he saw the hot blood stain her face
and neck to a most unnatural color.

He had not the remotest suspicion that she had never
been a wife; he only thought from her agitation that
she possibly was a widow, and unconsciously to himself
the idea was fraught with a vague feeling of gladness,
for, to most men, it is pleasanter knowing they have
been polite to a pretty girl, or even a pretty widow,
than to a wife, whose lord might object, and Irving
was not an exception. Was she a widow, and had
he unwittingly touched the half-healed wound?
He wished he knew, and he stood waiting for her answer
to his question, “You have a husband?”

Page 139

At a glance Adah had read the name upon the card,
knowing now who had befriended her. It was Irving
Stanley, Augusta’s brother, second cousin to
Hugh, and ’Lina was with his sister in New York.
He was going there, he might speak of her, and if
she told her name, her miserable story would be known
to more than it was already. It was a false pride
which kept Adah silent when she knew that Irving Stanley
was waiting for her to speak, wondering at her agitated
manner. He was looking at her eyes, her large
brown eyes, which dared not meet his, and as he looked
a terrible suspicion crept over him. Involuntarily
he felt for her third finger. It was ringless,
and he dropped it suddenly, but with a feeling that
he might be unjust, that all were not of his church
and creed, he took it again, and said his parting
words. Then, turning to Willie, he smoothed the
silken curls, praised the beauty of the sleeping child,
and left the room.

Adah knew that he was gone, that she should not see
him again, and that, at the very last, there had arisen
some misunderstanding, she hardly knew what, for the
shock of finding who he was had prevented her from
fully comprehending the fact that he had asked her
for her husband. She never dreamed of the suspicion
which, for an instant, had a lodgment in his breast,
or she would almost have died where she stood, gazing
at the door through which he had disappeared.

“I ought to have told him my name, but I could
not,” she sighed, as the sound of his rapid
footsteps died upon the stairs.

They ceased at last, and with a feeling of utter desolation,
as if she were now indeed alone, Adah sank upon her
knees, and covering her face with her hands, wept
bitterly. Anon, however, holier, calmer feelings
swept over her. She was not alone. They who
love God can never be alone, however black the darkness
be around them. And Adah did love Him, thanking
Him at last for raising her up this friend in her sore
need, for putting it into Irving Stanley’s heart
to care for her, a stranger, as he had done.
And as she prayed, the wish arose that George had been,
more like him. He would not then have deserted
her, she sobbed, while again her lips breathed a prayer
for Irving Stanley, thoughts of whom even then made
her once broken heart beat as she had never expected
it to beat again.

So absorbed was Adah that she did not hear the returning
footsteps as Irving came across the hall. He
had remembered some directions he would give her,
and at the risk of being left, had come back a moment.
She did not hear the turning of the knob, the opening
of the door, or know that he for whom she prayed was
standing so near to her that he heard distinctly what
she said, kneeling there by the chair where he had
sat, her fair head bent down and her face concealed
from view.

“God in heaven bless and keep the noble Irving
Stanley.”

* * * *
*

Page 140

In the office below, Dr. Richards, who had purposely
stopped for the day in Albany, smoked his expensive
cigars, ordered oysters and wine sent to his room—­the
very one adjoining Adah’s—­made two
or three calls, wrote an explanatory note to ’Lina—­feeling
half tempted to leave out the “Dear,”
with which he felt constrained to preface it—­thought
again of Lily—­poor Lily, as he always called
her—­thought once of the strange woman and
the little boy, in whom Irving Stanley had been so
interested, wondered where they were going, and who
it was the boy looked a little like—­thought
somehow of Anna in connection with that boy; and then,
late in the afternoon, sauntered down to the Boston
depot, and took his seat in the car, which, at about
ten o’clock that night would deposit him at
Snowdon. There were no “squalling brats”
to disturb him, for Adah, unconscious of his proximity,
was in the rear car—­pale, weary, and nervous
with the dread which her near approach to Terrace Hill
inspired. What, if after all, Anna, should not
want her? And this was a possible contingency,
notwithstanding Alice had been no sanguine.

Darkly the December night closed in, and still the
train kept on, until at last Danville was reached,
and she must alight, as the express did not stop again
until it reached Worcester. With a chill sense
of loneliness, and a vague, confused wish for the
one cheering voice which had greeted her ear since
leaving Spring Bank, Adah stood upon the snow-covered
platform, holding Willie in her arms, and pointing
out her trunk to the civil baggage man, who, in answer
to her inquiries as to the best means of reaching
Terrace Hill, replied: “You can’t
go there to-night; it is too late. You’ll
have to stay in the tavern kept right over the depot,
though if you’d kept on the train there might
have been a chance, for I see the young Dr. Richards
aboard; and as he didn’t get out, I guess he’s
coaxed or hired the conductor to leave him at Snowdon.”

The baggage man was right in his conjecture, for the
doctor had persuaded the polite conductor, whom he
knew personally, to stop the train at Snowdon; and
while Adah, shivering with cold, found her way up
the narrow stairs into the rather comfortless quarters
where she must spend the night, the doctor was kicking
the snow from his feet and talking to Jim, the coachman
from Terrace Hill.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE CONVICT

It was a sad morning at Spring Bank, that morning
of Adah’s leaving, and many a tear was shed
as the last good-by was spoken. Mrs. Worthington,
Alice and Hugh accompanied Adah to Frankfort, and Alice
had never seemed in better spirits than on that winter’s
morning. She would be gay; it was a duty she
owed Hugh, and Adah, too. So she talked and laughed
as if there was no load upon her heart, and no cloud
on Adah’s spirits. Outwardly Mrs. Worthington
suffered most, wondering why she should cling so to

Page 141

Adah, and why this parting was so painful. All
the farewell words had been spoken, for Adah would
not leave them to the chance of a last moment.
She seemed almost too pretty to send on that long journey
alone, and Hugh felt that he might be doing wrong
in suffering her to depart without an escort.
But Adah only laughed at his fears. Willie was
her protector, she said, and then, as the train came
up she turned to Mrs. Worthington, who, haunted with
the dread lest something should happen to prevent
’Lina’s marriage, said softly:

“You’ll be careful about ’Lina?”

Yes, Adah would be careful, and to Alice she whispered:

“I’ll write after I get there, but you
must not answer it at least not till I say you may.
Good-by.”

* * * *
*

“Come, mother, we are waiting for you,”
Hugh said.

At the sound of Hugh’s voice she started and
replied:

“Oh, yes, I remember—­we are to visit
the penitentiary. Dear me,” and in a kind
of absent way, Mrs. Worthington took Hugh’s arm,
and the party proceeded on their way to the huge building
known as the Frankfort Penitentiary. Hugh was
well acquainted with the keeper, who admitted them
cheerfully, and ushered them at once into the spacious
yard.

Pleased with Alice’s enthusiastic interest in
everything he said, the keeper was quite communicative,
pointing out the cells of any noted felons, repeating
little incidents of daring attempts to escape, and
making the visit far more entertaining than the party
had expected.

“This,” he said, opening a narrow door,
“this belongs to the negro stealer, Sullivan.
You know him, Mrs. Worthington. He ran off the
old darky you now own, old Sam, I mean.”

“I’d like to see Mr. Sullivan,”
Alice said. “I saw old Sam when he was
in Virginia.”

“We’ll find him on the ropewalk.
We put our hardest customers there. Not that
he gives us trouble, for he does not, and I rather
like the chap, but we have a spite against these Yankee
negro stealers,” was the keeper’s reply,
as he led the way to the long low room, where groups
of men walked up and down—­up and down—­holding
the long line of hemp, which, as far as they were
concerned, would never come to an end until the day
of their release.

“That’s he,” the keeper whispered
to Alice, who had fallen behind Hugh and his mother.
“That’s he, just turning this way—­the
one to the right.”

Alice nodded in token that she understood, and then
stood watching while he came up. Mrs. Worthington
and Hugh were watching too, not him particularly,
for they did not even know which was Sullivan, but
stood waiting for the whole long line advancing slowly
toward them, their eyes cast down with conscious shame,
as if they shrank from being seen. One of them,
however, was wholly unabashed. He thought it probable
the keeper would point him out; he knew they used
to do so when he first came there, but he did not
care; he rather liked the notoriety, and when he saw
that Alice seemed waiting for him, he fixed his keen
eyes on her, starting at the sight of so much beauty,
end never even glancing at the other visitors, at
Mrs. Worthington and Hugh, who, a little apart from
each other, saw him at the same moment, both turning
cold and faint, the one with surprise, and the other
with a horrid, terrible fear.

Page 142

It needed but a glance to assure Hugh that he stood
in the presence of the man who with strangely winning
powers had tempted him to sin—­the villain
who had planned poor Adah’s marriage—­Monroe,
her guardian, whose sudden disappearance had been
so mysterious. Hugh never knew how he controlled
himself from leaping into that walk and compelling
the bold wretch to tell if he knew aught of the base
deserter, Willie Hastings’ father. He did,
indeed, take one forward step while his fist clinched
involuntarily, but the next moment fell powerless at
his side as a low wail of pain reached his ear and
he turned in time to save his fainting mother from
falling to the floor.

She, too, had seen the ropemaker, glancing at him
twice ere sure she saw aright, and then, as if a corpse
buried years ago had arisen to her view, the blood
curdled about her heart which after one mighty throe
lay heavy and still as lead. He was not dead;
that paragraph in the paper telling her so was false;
he did not die, such as he could not die; he was alive—­alive—­a
convict within those prison walls; a living, breathing
man with that same look she remembered so well, shuddering
as she remembered it, ’Lina’s father and
her own husband!

“It was the heat, or the smell, or the parting
with Adah, or something,” she said, when she
came back to consciousness, eagerly scanning Hugh’s
face to see if he knew too, and then glancing timidly
around as if in quest of the phantom which had so
affected her.

“Let’s go home, I’m sorry I came
to Frankfort,” she whispered, while her teeth
chattered and her eyes wore a look of terror for which
Hugh could not account.

He never thought of associating her illness with the
man who had so affected himself. It was overexertion,
he said. His mother could not bear much, and
with all the tenderness of an affectionate son he wrapped
her shawl about her and led her gantry from the spot
which held for her so great a terror. It was
not physical fear; she had never been afraid of bodily
harm, even when fully in his power. It was rather
the olden horror stealing back upon her, the pain
which comes from the slow grinding out of one’s
entire will and spirit. She had forgotten the
feeling, it was so long since it had been experienced,
but one sight of him brought it back, and all the
way from Frankfort to Spring Bank she lay upon Hugh’s
shoulder quiet, but sick and faint, with a shrinking
from what the future might possibly have in store for
her.

In this state of mind she reached Spring Bank, where
by some strange coincidence, if coincidence it can
be called, old Densie Densmore was the first to greet
her, asking, with much concern, what was the matter.
It was a rare thing for Densie to be at all demonstrative,
but in the suffering expression of Mrs. Worthington’s
face she recognized something familiar, and attached
herself at once to the weak, nervous woman, who sought
her bed, and burying her face in the pillow cried herself
to sleep, while Densie, like some white-haired ghost,
sat watching her silently.

Page 143

“The poor thing has had trouble,” she
whispered, “trouble in her day, and it has left
deep furrows in her forehead, but it cannot have been
like mine. She surely, was never betrayed, or
deserted, or had her only child stolen from her.
The wretch! I cursed him once, when my heart was
harder than it is now. I have forgiven him since,
for well as I could, I loved him.”

There was a moaning sound in the winter wind howling
about Spring Bank that night, but it suited Densie’s
mood, and helped to quiet her spirits, as, until a
late hour, she sat by Mrs. Worthington, who aroused
up at intervals, saying, in answer to Densie’s
inquiries, she was not sick, she was only tired—­that
sleep would do her good.

And while they were thus together a convict sought
his darkened cell and laid him down to rest upon the
narrow couch which had been his bed so long.
Drearily to him the morning broke, and with the struggling
in of the daylight he found upon his floor the handkerchief
dropped inadvertently by Mrs. Worthington, and unseen
till now. He knew it was not unusual for strangers
to visit the cells, and so he readily guessed how
it came there, holding it a little more to the light
to see the name written so plainly upon it.

“Eliza Worthington.” That was what
the convict read, a blur before his eyes, and a strange
sensation at his heart. “Eliza Worthington.”

How came she there, and when? Suddenly he remembered
the event of yesterday, the woman who fainted, the
tall man who carried her out, the beautiful girl who
had looked at him so pityingly, and then, while every
nerve quivered with intense excitement, he whispered:

“That was my wife! I did not see her face,
but she saw me, fainting at the sight.”

Hard, and villainous, and sinful as that man had been,
there was a tender chord beneath the villain exterior,
and it quivered painfully as he said “fainted
at the sight.” This was the keenest pang
of the whole, for as Densie Densmore had moaned the
previous night, “I loved him once,” so
he now, rocking to and fro on his narrow bed, with
that handkerchief pressed to his throbbing heart,
murmured hoarsely:

“I loved Eliza once, though she would not believe
it.”

Then the image of the young man and the girl came
up before him, making him start again, for he guessed
that man was Hugh, his stepson, while the girl—­oh,
could that beautiful creature—­be—­his—­daughter!

“Not Adaline, assuredly,” he whispered,
“nor Adah, my poor darling Adah. Oh, where
is she this morning? I did love Adah,” and
the convict moistened Eliza Worthington’s handkerchief
with the tears he shed for sweet Adah Hastings.

Outwardly, that day the so-called Sullivan was the
same, as he paced up and down the walk, but never
since first he began the weary march, had his brain
been the seat of thoughts so tumultuous as those stirring
within him, the day succeeding Mrs. Worthington’s
visit. Where were his victims now? Were
they all alive? And would he meet them yet?
Would Eliza Worthington ever come there again, or
Hugh, and would he see them if they did? Perhaps
not, but some time, a few months hence, he would find
them, would find Hugh at least, and ask if he knew
aught of Adah—­Adah, more terribly wronged
than even the wife had been.

Page 144

And while he thus resolved, poor Mrs. Worthington
at home moved nervously around the house, casting
uneasy glances backward, forward, and sideways, as
if she were expecting some goblin shape to rise suddenly
before her and claim her for its own. They were
wretched, uneasy days which followed that visit to
Frankfort—­days of racking headache to Mrs.
Worthington, and days of anxious thought to Hugh, who
thus was led in a measure to forget the pain he would
otherwise have felt at the memory of Alice’s
refusal.

CHAPTER XXXII

ADAH AT TERRACE HILL

The next morning was cold and frosty, as winter mornings
in New England are wont to be, and Adah, accustomed
to the more genial climate of Kentucky, shivered involuntarily
as from her uncurtained window she looked out upon
the bare woods and the frozen fields covered with the
snow of yesterday.

Across the track, near to a dilapidated board fence,
a family carriage was standing, the driver unnecessarily,
as it seemed to Adah—­holding the heads
of the horses, who neither sheered nor jumped, nor
gave other tokens that they feared the hissing engine.
She had not seen that carriage when it drove up before
the door, nor yet the young man who had alighted from
it; but as she stood there, a loud laugh reached her
ear, making her start suddenly, it was so like his—­like
George’s.

“It could not be George,” she said; that
were impossible, and yet she crept softly out into
the hall, and leaning over the banister, listened
eagerly to the sounds from the room below, where a
crowd of men were assembled.

The laugh was not repeated, and with a dim feeling
of disappointment she went back to the window where
on Willie’s neck she wept the tears which always
flowed when she thought of George’s desertion.
There was a knock at the door, and the baggageman
appeared.

“If you please, ma’am,” he began,
“the Terrace Hill carriage is here. I told
the driver how’t you wanted to go there.
Shall I give him your trunk?”

Adah answered in the affirmative, and then hastened
to wrap up Willie, glancing again at the carriage,
which, now that it was associated with the gentle
Anna, looked far better to her than it had at first.
She was ready in a moment and descended to the room
where Jim, the driver, stood waiting for her.

“A lady,” was his mental comment, and
with as much politeness as if she had been Madam Richards
herself, he opened the carriage door and held Willie
while she entered, asking if she were comfortable,
and peering a little curiously in Willie’s face,
which puzzled him somewhat. “A near connection,
I guess, and mighty pretty too. Them old maids
will raise hob with the boy,—­nice little
shaver,” thought the kind-hearted Jim.

Once, as Adah caught his good-humored eye, she ventured
to say to him:

“Has Miss Anna procured a waiting maid yet?”

Page 145

There was a comical gleam in Jim’s eye now,
for Adah was not the first applicant he had taken
up to Terrace Hill. He never suspected that this
was Adah’s business, and he answered frankly:

“No, that’s about played out. Madam
turned the last one out doors.”

“Turned her out doors?” and Adah’s
face was as white as the snow rifts they were passing.

The driver felt that he had gossiped too much, and
relapsed into silence, while Adah, in a paroxysm of
terror, sat with clasped hands and closed eyes.
Leaning forward, at last she said, huskily:

“Driver, driver, do you think she’ll turn
me off, too?”

“Turn you off!” and in his surprise at
the sudden suspicion which for the first time darted
across his mind, Jim brought his horses to a full
stop, while he held a parley with the pale, frightened
creature, asking so eagerly if Mrs. Richards would
turn her off. “Why should she? You
ain’t going there for that, be you?”

“Not to be turned out of doors, no,” Adah
answered; “but I—­I—­I want
that place so much. I read Miss Anna’s advertisement;
but please turn back, or let me get out and walk.
I can’t go there now. Is Miss Anna like
the rest?”

“Miss Anna’s an angel,” he answered.
“If you get her ear, you’re all right;
the plague is to get it with them two she-cats ready
to tear your eyes out. If I’se you, I’d
ask to see her. I wouldn’t tell my arrent
either, till I did. She’s sick upstairs;
but I’ll see if Pamely can’t manage it.
That’s my woman—­Pamely; been mine
for four years, and we’ve had two pair of twins,
all dead; so I feel tender toward the little ones,”
and Jim glanced kindly at Willie, who had succeeded
in making Adah notice the house standing out so prominently
against the winter sky, and looking to the poor woman-girl
more like a prison than a home.

It might be pleasant there in the summer, Adah thought;
but now, with snow on the roof, snow on the walk,
snow on the trees, snow everywhere, it presented a
cheerless aspect. Only one part of it seemed
inviting—­the two crimson-curtained windows
opening upon a veranda, from which a flight of steps
led down into what must be a flower garden.

“Miss Anna’s room,” the driver said,
pointing toward it; and Adah looked wistfully out,
vainly hoping for a glimpse of the sweet face she had
in her mind as Anna’s.

But only Asenath’s grim, angular visage was
seen, as it looked from Anna’s window, wondering
whom Jim could be bringing home.

“It’s a handsome trunk—­covered,
too. Can it be Lottie?” and mentally hoping
it was not, she busied herself again with bathing poor
Anna’s head, which was aching sadly to-day,
owing to the excitement of her brother’s visit
and the harsh words which passed between him and his
sisters, he telling them, jokingly at first, that he
was tired of getting married, and half resolved to
give it up; while they, in return, had abused him
for fickleness, taunted him with their poverty, and
sharply reproached him for his unwillingness to lighten
their burden, by taking a rich wife when he could
get one.

Page 146

All this John had repeated to Anna in the dim twilight
of the morning, as he stood by her bedside to bid
her good-by; and she, as usual, had soothed him into
quiet, speaking kindly of his bride-elect, and saying
she should like her.

He had not told her all of Lily’s story, as
he meant to do. There was no necessity for that,
for the matter was fixed. ’Lina should be
his wife, and he need not trouble Anna further; so
he had bidden her adieu, and was gone again, the carriage
which bore him away bringing back Adah and her boy.

Jim opened the wide door for her, and showing her
first into the parlor, but finding that dark and cold,
he ushered her next into a little reception-room,
where the Misses Richards received their morning calls.

Willie seemed perfectly at home, seating himself upon
a little stool, covered with some of Miss Eudora’s
choicest worsted embroidery, a piece of work of which
she was very proud, never allowing anything to touch
it lest the roses should be jammed, or the raised leaves
defaced. But Willie cared neither for leaves,
nor roses, nor yet for Miss Eudora, and drawing the
stool to his mother’s side, he sat kicking his
little heels into a worn place of the carpet, which
no child had kicked since the doctor’s days
of babyhood. The tender threads were fast giving
way to the vigorous strokes, when two doors opposite
each other opened simultaneously, and both Mrs. Richards
and Eudora appeared.

“Are you—­ah, yes—­you are
the lady who Jim said wished to see me,” Mrs.
Richards began, bowing politely to Adah, who had not
yet dared to look up, and who when at last she did
raise her eyes, withdrew them at once, more abashed,
more frightened, more bewildered than ever, for the
face she saw fully warranted her ideas of a woman
who could turn a waiting maid from her door just because
she was a waiting maid.

Something seemed choking Adah and preventing her utterance,
for she did not speak until Mrs. Richards said again,
this time with a little less suavity and a little
more hauteur of manner, “Have I had the honor
of meeting you before?”—­then with
a low gasp, a mental petition for help, Adah rose
up and lifting to Mrs. Richards’ cold, haughty
face, her soft, brown eyes, where tears were almost
visible, answered faintly: “We have not
met before. Excuse me, madam, but my business
is with Miss Anna, can I see her please?”

There was something supplicating in the tone with
which Adah made this request, and it struck Mrs. Richards
unpleasantly. She answered haughtily, though
still politely, “My daughter is sick. She
does not see visitors. It will be impossible
to admit you to her chamber, but I will take your
name and your errand.”

Page 147

Adah felt as if she should sink beneath the cold,
cruel scrutiny to which she knew she was subjected
by the woman on her right and the woman on her left.
Too much confused to remember anything distinctly,
Adah forgot Jim’s injunction; forgot that Pamelia
was to arrange it somehow; forgot everything, except
that Mrs. Richards was waiting for her to speak.
An ominous cough from Eudora decided her, and then
it came out, her reason for being there. She
had seen Miss Anna’s advertisement, she wanted
a place, and she had come so far to get it; had left
a happy home that she might not be dependent but earn,
her bread for herself and her little boy, for Willie.
Would they take her message to Anna? Would they
let her stay?

“You say you left a happy home,” and the
thin, sneering lips of Eudora were pressed so tightly
together that the words could scarcely find egress.
“May I ask, if it was so happy, why you left
it?”

There was a flush on Adah’s cheek as she replied,
“Because it was a home granted at first from
charity. It was not mine. The people were
poor, and I would not longer be a burden to them.”

“And your husband—­where is he?”

This was the hardest question of all, and Adah’s
distress was visible as she replied, “I will
be frank with you. Willie’s father left
me, and I don’t know where he is.”

An incredulous, provoking smile flitted over Eudora’s
face as she returned, “We hardly care to have
a deserted wife in our family—­it might
be unpleasant.”

“Yes,” and the old lady took up the argument,
“Anna is well enough without a maid. I
don’t know why she put that foolish advertisement
in the paper, in answer, I believe, to one equally
foolish which she saw about ‘an unfortunate
woman with a child.’”

“I am that woman. I wrote that advertisement
when my heart was heavier than it is now, and God
took care of it. He pointed it out to Miss Anna.
He caused her to answer it. He sent me here, and
you will let me see her. Think if it were your
own daughter, pleading thus with some one.”

“That is impossible. Neither my daughter,
nor my daughter-in-law, if I had one, could ever come
to a servant’s position,” Mrs. Richards
replied, not harshly, for there was something in Adah’s
manner and in Adah’s eyes which rode down her
resentful pride; and she might have yielded, but for
Eudora, whose hands had so ached to shake the little
child, now innocently picking at a bud.

How she did long to box his ears, and while her mother
talked, she had taken a step forward more than once,
but stopped as often, held in check by the little
face and soft blue eyes, turned so trustingly upon
her, the pretty lips once actually putting themselves
toward her, as if expecting a kiss. Frosty old
maid as she was, Eudora could not harm that child
sitting on her embroidery as coolly as if he had a
right; but she could prevent her mother from granting
the stranger’s request; so when she saw signs
of yielding, she said, decidedly, “She cannot
see Anna, mother. You know how foolish she is,
and there’s no telling what fancy she might
take.”

Page 148

“Eudora,” said Mrs. Richards in a low
tone, “it might be well for Anna to have a maid,
and this one is certainly different from the others
who have applied.”

“But the child. We can’t be bothered
with a child. Evidently he is not governed at
all, and brother’s wife coming by and by.”

This last caught Adah’s ear and changed the
whole current of her thoughts and wishes. Greatly
to Mrs. Richards’ surprise, she said abruptly,
“If I cannot see Miss Anna, I need not trouble
you longer. When does the next train go west?”

Adah’s voice never faltered, though her heart
seemed bursting from her throat, for she had not the
most remote idea as to where the next train going
west would take her. She had reached a point when
she no longer thought or reasoned; she would leave
Terrace Hill; that was all she knew, except that in
her mind there was a vague fancy or hope that she
might meet Irving Stanley again. Not George, she
did not even think of him, as she stood before Dr.
Richards’ mother, who looked at her in surprise,
marveling that she had given up so quietly what she
had apparently so much desired.

Very civilly she told her when the next train went
west, and then added kindly, “You cannot walk.
You must stay here till car-time, when Jim will carry
you back.”

At this unexpected kindness Adah’s calmness
gave way, and sitting down by the table, she laid
her face upon it and sobbed almost convulsively.

“Mamma tie, mam-ma tie,” and he pulled
Mrs. Richards’ skirts vigorously indicating
that she must do something for mamma.

Just then the doorbell rang. It was the doctor,
come to visit Anna, and both Mrs. Richards and Eudora
left the room at once.

“Oh, why did I come here, and where shall I
go?” Adah moaned, as a sense of her lonely condition
came over her.

“Will my Father in heaven direct me? will He
tell me what to do?” she murmured brokenly,
praying softly to herself that a way might be opened
for her, a path which she could tread.

She could not tell how it was, but a quiet peace stole
over her, a feeling which had no thought or care for
the future, and it had been many nights since she
had slept as sweetly or soundly as she did for one
half hour with her head upon the table in that little
room at Terrace Hill, Dr. Richards’ home and
Anna’s. She did not see the good-humored
face which looked in at her a moment, nor hear the
whispering in the hall; neither did she know when Willie,
nothing loath, was coaxed from the room and carried
up the stairs into the upper hall, where he was purposely
left to himself, while Pamelia, the mother of Jim’s
two pairs of twins, went to Anna’s room, where
she was to sit for an hour or so, while the ladies
had their lunch. Anna’s head was better;
the paroxysms of pain were leas frequent than in the
morning, and she lay upon her pillow, her eyes closed
wearily, and her thoughts with Charlie Millbrook.
Why had he never written?—­why never come
to see her?

Page 149

So intently was she thinking of Charlie that she did
not hear the patter of little feet in the hall without.
Tired of staying by himself, and spying the open door,
Willie hastened toward it, pausing a moment on the
threshold as if to reconnoiter. Something in Anna’s
attitude, as she lay with her long hair falling over
the pillow, must have reminded him of Alice, for,
with a cry of delight, he ran forward, and patting
the white cheek with his soft baby hand, lisped out
the word “Arn-tee, arn-tee,” making Anna
start suddenly and gaze at him in wondering surprise.

“Who is he?” she said, drawing him to
her at once and pressing a kiss upon his rosy face.

Pamelia told her what she knew of the stranger waiting
in the reception-room, adding in conclusion:
“I believe they said you did not want her, and
Jim is to take her to the depot when it’s time.
She’s very young and pretty, and looks so sorry,
Jim told me.”

“Said I did not want her! How did they
know?” and something of the Richards’
spirit flashed from Anna’s eyes. “The
child is so beautiful, and he called me ‘Auntie,’
too! He must have an auntie somewhere. Little
dear! how she must love him! Lift him up, Pamelia.”

“I must see his mother,” Anna said.
“She must be above the ordinary waiting maids.
Perhaps I should like her. At all events I will
hear what she has to say. Show her up, Pamelia;
but first smooth my hair a little and arrange my pillows.”

Pamelia complied with her request; then leaving Willie
with Anna, she repaired to the reception-room, and
arousing the sleeping Adah, said to her hurriedly:

“Please, miss, come quick; Miss Anna wants to
see you. The little boy is up there with her.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

ANNA AND ADAH

For a moment Anna was inclined to think that Pamelia
had made a mistake. That beautiful face, that
refined, ladylike manner, did not suit well a waiting
maid, and Anna’s doubts were increasing, when
little Willie set her right by patting her cheek again,
while he called out: “Mamma, arntee.”

The look of interest which Anna cast upon him emboldened
Adah to say:

“Excuse him, Miss Richards; he must have mistaken
you for a dear friend at home, whom he calls ‘Auntie,’
I’ll take him down; he troubles you.”

“No, no,” and Anna passed her arm around
him. “I love children so much. I ought
to have been a wife and mother, my brother says, instead
of a useless old maid.”

Anna smiled faintly as she said this, while thoughts
of Charlie Millbrook flashed across her mind.
Adah was too much a stranger to disclaim against Anna’s
calling herself old, so she paid no attention to the
remark, but plunged at once into the matter which had
brought her there. Presuming they would rather
be alone, Pamelia had purposely left the room, meeting
in the lower hall with Mrs. Richards and her daughter,
who, in much affright, were searching for the recent
occupants of the reception-room. Pamelia quieted
them by saying: “The lady was in Miss Anna’s
room.”

Page 150

“How came she there? She must be a bold
piece, upon my word!” she said, angrily, while
Pamelia replied:

“The little boy got upstairs, and walked right
into Miss Anna’s room. She was taken with
him at once, and asked who he was. I told her
and she sent for the lady. That’s how it
happened.”

Mrs. Richards hurried up to Anna’s chamber,
where Willie still was perched by Anna’s pillow,
while Adah, with her bonnet in her lap, sat a little
apart, traces of tears and agitation upon her cheeks,
but a look of happiness in the brown eyes fixed so
wistfully on Anna’s fair, sweet face.

“Please, mother,” said Anna, motioning
her away, “leave us alone a while. Shut
the door, and see that no one comes near.”

Mrs. Richards obeyed, and Anna, waiting until she
was out of hearing, resumed the conversation just
where it had been interrupted.

“And so you are the one who wrote that advertisement
which I read. Let me see—­the very
night my brother came home from Europe. I remember
he laughed because I was so interested, and he accidentally
tore off the name to light his cigar, so I forgot
it entirely. What shall I call you, please?”

Adah was tempted to answer her at once, “Adah
Hastings”—­it seemed so wrong to impose
in any way on that frank, sweet woman; but she remembered
Mrs. Worthington’s injunction, and for her sake
she refrained, keeping silent a moment, and then breaking
out impetuously: “Please, Miss Richards,
don’t ask my real name, for I’d rather
not give it now. I will tell you of the past,
though I did not ever mean to do that; but something
about you makes me know I can trust you.”
And then, amid a shower of tears, in which Anna’s,
too, were mingled, Adah told her sad story.

“But why do you wish to conceal?” she
asked, after Adah had finished. “Is there
any reason?”

“At first there was none in particular, save
a fancy I had, but there came one afterward—­the
request of one who had been, kind to me as a dear
mother. Is it wrong not to tell the whole?”

“I think not. You have dealt honestly with
me so far, but what shall I call you? You must
have a name.”

“Oh, may I stay?” Adah asked eagerly,
forgetting her late terror of ’Lina.

“Of course you may. Did you think I would
turn you away?” was Anna’s reply; and
laying her head upon the white counterpane of the bed,
Adah cried passionately; not a wild, bitter cry, but
a delicious kind of cry which did her good, even though
her whole frame quivered and her low, choking sobs
fell distinctly on Anna’s ear.

“Poor child!” the latter said, laying
her soft hand on the bowed head. “You have
suffered much, but with me you shall find rest.
I want you for a companion, rather than a maid.
I, too, have had my heart troubles; not like yours,
but heavy enough to make me wish I could die.”

It was seldom that Anna alluded to herself in this
way, and to do so to a stranger was utterly foreign
to the Richards’ nature. But Anna could
not help it. There was something about Adah which
interested her greatly. She could not wholly
shield her from her mother’s and sisters’
pride, but she would do what she could.

Page 151

“Oh, pride, pride,” she whispered to herself,
“of how much pain hast thou been the cause.”

Pride had sent her Charlie over the sea without her;
pride had separated her brother from the Lily she
was sure he loved, as he could never love the maiden
to whom he was betrothed; and pride, it seemed, had
been at the root of all this young girl’s sorrow.
Blessed Anna Richards—­the world has few
like her—­so gentle, so kind, so lovely,
and as no one could long be with her and not feel
her influence, so Adah, by the touch of the fingers
still caressing her, was soothed into peaceful quiet.

When she had grown quite calm, Anna continued:
“You have not told me yet what name to give
you, or shall I choose one for you?”

“Oh, if you only would!” and Adah looked
up quickly.

Anna began to enjoy this mystery, wondering what name
she should choose. Adah should be Rose Markham,
and she repeated it aloud, asking Adah how it sounded.

“If it did not seem so much like deceiving,”
Adah said. “You’ll tell your family
it is not my real name, won’t you?”

Anna readily agreed to Adah’s proposal, and
then, remembering that all this time she had been
sitting in her cloak and fur, she bade her lay them
aside. “Or, stay,” she added, “touch
that bell, if you please, and ring Pamelia up.
There’s a little room adjoining this. I
mean to give you that. You will be so near me,
and so retired, too, when you like. John—­that’s
my brother—­occupied it when a boy.
I think it will answer nicely for you.”

Obedient to the ring, Pamelia came, manifesting no
surprise when told by Anna to unlock the door and
see if the little room was in order for “Mrs.
Markham.”

Pamelia cast a rapid glance at Adah, who winced as
she heard the new name, and felt glad when Anna added:
“Pamelia, I can trust you not to gossip out
of the house. This young woman’s name is
not Markham, but I choose to have her called so.”

Another glance at Adah, more curious than the first,
and then Pamelia did as she was bidden, opening the
door and saying, as she did so: “I know
the room is in order. There’s a fire, too;
Miss Anna has forgot that Dr. John slept here last
night.”

“I do remember now,” Anna replied.
“Mrs. Markham can go in at once. Pamelia,
send lunch to her room, and tell your husband to bring
up her trunk.”

Again Pamelia bowed and departed to do her young mistress’
bidding, while Adah entered the pleasant room where
Dr. Richards had slept the previous night.

On the marble hearth the remains of a cheerful fire
were blazing, while on the mantel over the hearth
was a portrait of a boy, apparently ten or twelve
years of age, and a young girl, who seemed a few years
older. The girl was Anna. But the boy, the
handsome, smooth-cheeked boy, in his fancy jacket,
with that expression of vanity plainly visible about
his mouth. Who was he? Had Adah any knowledge
of him? Had they met before? Never that

Page 152

she knew of. Dr. Richards was a stranger to her,
for she guessed this was the doctor, ’Lina’s
betrothed, scrutinizing him closely, and wondering
if the man retained the look of the boy. And as
she gazed, the features seemed to grow familiar.
Surely she had met a face like this, but where she
could not guess, and turning from him she inspected
the rest of the room, wondering if Alice Johnson were
ever in this room.

With thoughts of Alice came memories of Spring Bank,
and the wish that they knew all this. How thankful
they would be, and how thankful she was for this resting
place in the protection of sweet Anna Richards.
It was better than she had even dared to hope for,
and sinking down by the snowy-covered bed, she murmured
inaudibly the prayer of thanksgiving she felt compelled
to make to Him who had led her to Terrace Hill.
It was thus that Pamelia found her when she came up
again, and it did much to establish the profound respect
she ever manifested toward the new waiting maid, Rose
Markham.

“Your lunch will be here directly,” she
said to Adah, who little dreamed of the parley which
had taken place between Asenath and Dixson, the cook,
concerning this same lunch.

Asenath was too proud to discuss the matter with a
servant, but when she saw the slices of cold chicken
which Dixson was deliberately cutting up, and the
little pot of jelly which Pamelia placed upon the salver,
she forgot her dignity, and angrily demanded what
they were doing.

“Miss Anna ordered lunch, and I’m a-gettin’
it,” was Dixson’s reply.

“Yes, but such a lunch for a waiting woman;
and going to send it up. I’d like to know
if she’s too big a lady to come into the kitchen,”
and Asenath’s sharp shoulders jerked savagely.

“I must say, I think you very foolish indeed,
to take a person about whom you know nothing,”
she said to Anna, as soon as she saw her, but stopped
short as Willie ran out from the adjoining room and
stood looking at her.

As well as she was capable of doing, Asenath had loved
her brother John when a baby; and when he became a
prattling active child, like the one standing before
her, she had almost worshiped him, thinking there was
never a face so pretty or manner so engaging as his.
There had come no baby after him, and she remembered
him so well, starting now with surprise as she saw
reflected in Willie’s face the look she never
had forgotten.

“Who is he, Anna? Not her child, the waiting
woman’s, surely.”

“Hush—­sh,” came warningly from
Anna, as she glanced toward the open door, and that
brought Asenath back from her dream of the past.

It was the waiting woman’s child. There
was no look like John now. She had been mistaken,
and rather rudely pushing him away, she said:
“I think you might have consulted us, at least.
What are we to do with a child in this house?
Here, here, young man,” and Asenath started forward
just in time to frighten Willie and make him drop and
break the goblet he was trying to reach from the stand,
“to dink,” as he said.

Page 153

Asenath’s purple silk was deluged with the water,
and her temper was considerably ruffled as she exclaimed:
“You see the mischief he has done, and it was
cut glass, too. I hope you’ll deduct it
from her wages!”

“Asenath,” and Anna’s voice betrayed
her astonishment that her sister should speak so in
Adah’s presence.

She had hurried out at Asenath’s alarm, but
the latter did not at first observe her, and when
she did, she was actually startled into an apology
for her speech.

“I’m sorry Willie was so careless.
I’ll pay for the goblet cheerfully,” Adah
said, not to Asenath, but to Anna, who answered kindly:
“No matter; it was already cracked across the
bottom—­don’t mind.”

But Adah did mind; and once alone in her room, her
tears fell in torrents. She had heard the whole
about Willie’s mischief, heard of the buds torn
to pieces, and of the hole kicked in the carpet.
She would like to see that hole, and after Willie
was asleep, she stole down to the reception-room to
see the damage for herself. She found the hole,
or what was intended for it, smiling as she examined
the few loose threads; and then she hunted for the
stool, finding it under the curtain where Eudora had
placed it, and finding, too, that letter dropped by
Jim. The others were gone, appropriated by Mrs.
Richards, who always watched for the western mail
and looked it over herself.

MISS ANNIE RICHARDS,
SNOWDOWN,
MASS.

That was the direction, and the envelope was faced
with black. Adah noticed this, together with
the heavy seal of wax stamped with an initial; and
she was taking the lost epistle to its rightful owner
when Mrs. Richards met her, asking what she had.

“I found this beneath the curtain,” Adah
replied. “It’s for Miss Anna; I’ll
take it to her, shall I?”

“Yes, yes—­yes, yes; for Anna,”
and madam snatched eagerly at that letter from Charlie
Millbrook.

Soon recovering herself, she said naturally:
“I’ll take it myself. Say, girl,
what is your name, now that you are to work here?
You won’t mind righting up the parlors, I presume—­sweeping
and dusting them, before you go upstairs again?”

It was new business for Adah, sweeping parlors as
a servant, but she did it without a murmur; and then,
when her task was completed, stopped for a moment
by a window, and looked out upon the town, wondering
where Alice Johnson’s home had been. The
house where she once lived would seem like an old
friend, she thought, just as Pamelia came in and joined
her. At the same moment Adah’s eye caught
the cottage by the river, and her heart beat rapidly,
for that seemed to answer Alice’s description
of her Snowdon home.

“Whose pretty place is that?” she asked,
pointing it out to Pamelia, who replied:

Page 154

“It was a Mrs. Johnson’s, but she’s
dead, and Miss Alice has gone a long ways off.
I wish you could see Miss Alice, the most beautiful
and the best lady in the world. She and Miss
Anna were great friends. She used to be up here
every day, and the village folks talked some that she
came to see the doctor. But my,” and Pamelia’s
face was very expressive of contempt, “she wouldn’t
have him, by a great sight. He’s going to
be married, though, to a Kentucky belle, with a hundred
or more negroes, they say, and mighty big feelin’.
But she needn’t bring none of her a’rs
nor her darkies here!”

“When does she come?” Adah asked, and
Pamelia answered:

“In the spring; so you needn’t begin to
dread her. Why, your face is white as paper,”
and rather familiarly Pamelia pinched Adah’s
marble cheek.

Adah did not mean to be proud, but still she could
not help shrinking from the familiarity, drawing back
so quickly that Pamelia saw the implied rebuke.
She did not ask pardon, but she became at once more
respectful.

A moment after Anna’s bell was heard, but Adah
paid no heed, till Pamelia said:

“That was Miss Anna’s bell, and it means
for you to come.”

Adah colored, and hastily left the room, while Pamelia
muttered to herself:

“Ain’t no more a maid than Miss Anna herself.
But why has she come here? That’s the mystery.
She’s been unfortunate.”

This was the solution in Pamelia’s mind; but
the thought went no further than to her better half.

Adah’s feelings at being called just as Lulu
and Muggins were at home, had been in a measure shared
by Anna, who hesitated several minutes ere touching
the bell.

“If she is to be my maid, it will be better
for us both not to act under restraint,” she
thought, and so rang out the summons which brought
Adah to her room.

It was an awkward business, requiring a menial’s
service of that ladylike creature, and Anna would
have been exceedingly perplexed had not Adah’s
good sense come to the rescue, prompting her to do
things unasked in such a way that Anna was at once
relieved from embarrassment, and felt that in Rose
Markham she had found a treasure. She did not
join the family in the evening, but kept her room
instead, talking with Adah and caressing and playing
with little Willie, who persisted in calling her “Arntee,”
in spite of all Adah could say.

“Never mind,” Anna answered, laughingly;
“I rather like to hear him. No one has
ever called me by that name, and maybe never will,
though my brother is engaged to be married in the
spring. I have a picture of his betrothed there
on my bureau. Would you like to see it?”

Adah nodded, and was soon gazing on the dark, haughty
face she knew so well, and which, even from the casing,
seemed to smile disdainfully upon, her, just as the
original had often done.

“What do you think of her?” Anna asked.

Adah must say something, and she replied:

Page 155

“I dare say people think her pretty.”

“Yes; but what do you think? I asked your
opinion,” persisted Anna; and thus beset Adah
replied at last:

“I think her too showily dressed for a picture.
She displays too much jewelry.”

Anna began to defend her future sister.

“There’s rather too much of ornament,
I’ll admit, but she’s a great beauty,
and attracts much attention. Why, one of her pictures
hangs in Brady’s Gallery.”

“At Brady’s!” and Adah spoke quickly.
“I should not suppose your brother would like
to have it there where so many can look at it.”

Anna tried to shield the heartless ’Lina, never
dreaming how much more than herself Adah knew of ’Lina
Worthington.

It seemed to Adah like a miserable deceit, sitting
there and listening while Anna talked of ’Lina,
and she was glad when at last she showed signs of
weariness, and expressed a desire to retire for the
night.

“Would you mind reading to me from the Bible?”
Anna asked.

“Oh, no, I’d like it so much,” and
Adah read her favorite chapter.

And Anna listening to the sweet, silvery tones reading:
“Let not your heart be troubled,” felt
her own sorrow grow less.

“If you please,” Adah said timidly, bending
over the sweet face resting on the pillow, “if
you please, may I say the ‘Lord’s Prayer’
here with you?”

Anna answered by grasping Adah’s hand, and whispering
to her:

“Yes, say it, do.”

Then Adah knelt beside her, and Anna’s fair
hand rested as if in blessing on her head as they
said together, “Our Father.”

Adah’s sleep was sweet that night in her little
room at Terrace Hill—­sweet, not because
she knew whose home it was, nor yet because only the
previous night he had tossed wearily upon the self-same
pillow where she was resting so quietly, but because
of a heart at peace with God, a feeling that she had
at last found a haven of shelter for herself and her
child, a home with Anna Richards, whose low breathings
could be distinctly heard, and who once as the night
wore on moaned so loudly in her sleep that it awakened
Adah, and brought her to the bedside. But Anna
was only dreaming and Adah heard her murmur the name
of Charlie.

“I will not awaken her,” she said, and
gliding back to her own room, she wondered who was
Anna’s Charlie, associating him somehow with
the letter she had given, into the care of Mrs. Richards.

CHAPTER XXXIV

ROSE MARKHAM

To Mrs. Richards and her elder daughters Rose Markham
was an object of suspicious curiosity, while the villagers
merely thought of Rose Markham as one far above her
position, saying not very complimentary things of
madam and her older daughters when it was known that
Rose had been banished from the family pew to the
side seat near the door, where honest Jim said his
prayers, with Pamelia at his side.

Page 156

For only one Sabbath had Adah graced the Richards’
pew, and then it was all Jim’s work. He
had driven his wife and Adah first to church, as the
day was stormy, and ere returning for the ladies, had
escorted Adah up the aisle and turned her into the
family pew, where she sat unconscious of the admiring
looks cast upon her by those already assembled, or
of the indignant astonishment of Miss Asenath and
Eudora when they found that for one half day at least
they must he disgraced by sitting with their servant.
Very haughtily the scandalized ladies swept up the
aisle, stopping suddenly at the pew door as if waiting
for Adah to leave; but she only drew back further
into the corner, while Willie held up to Asenath the
picture he had found in her velvet-bound prayer book.

Alas! for the quiet hour Adah had hoped to spend,
hallowed by thoughts that the dear ones at Spring
Bank were mingling in the same service. She could
not even join in the responses at first for the bitterness
at her heart, the knowing how much she was despised
by the proud ladies beside her.

Very close she kept Willie at her side, allowing him
occasionally as he grew tired to stand upon the cushion,
a proceeding highly offensive to the Misses Richards
and highly gratifying to the row of tittering schoolgirls
in the seat behind him. Willie always attracted
attention, and numerous were the compliments paid
to his infantile beauty by the younger portion of
the congregation, while the older ones, they who remembered
the doctor when a boy, declared that Willie Markham
was exactly like him, when standing in the seat he
kept the children in continual excitement by his restless
movements and pretty baby ways.

The fire burned brightly in Anna’s room when
Adah returned from church, and Anna herself was waiting
for her, welcoming her back with a smile which went
far toward removing the pain still heavy at her heart.
Anna saw something was the matter, but it was her
sisters who enlightened her as together they ate their
Sunday dinner in the little breakfast room where Anna
joined them.

“Such impudence,” Eudora said. “She
had not heard one word of Mr. Howard’s sermon,
for keeping her book and dress and fur away from that
little torment.”

Then followed the story in detail, how “Markham
had sat in their seat, parading herself up there just
for show, while Willie had kissed the picture of little
Samuel in Asenath’a book and left thereon the
print of his lips. If Anna would have a maid,
they did wish she would get one not quite so affected
as Markham, one who did not try to attract attention
by assuming the airs of a lady,” and with this
the secret was out.

Adah was too pretty, too stylish, to suit the prim
Eudora, who felt keenly how she must suffer by comparison
with her sister’s waiting maid. Even unsuspicious
Anna saw the point, and smiling archly asked “what
she could do to make Rose less attractive.”

Page 157

In some things Anna could not have her way, and when
her mother and sisters insisted that they would not
keep a separate table for Markham, as they called
Adah, she yielded, secretly bidding Pamelia see that
everything was comfortable and nice for Mrs. Markham
and her little boy. There was hardly need for
this injunction, for in the kitchen Adah was regarded
as far superior to those who would have trampled her
down, and her presence among the servants was not
without its influence, softening Jim’s rough,
loud ways, and making both Dixson and Pamelia more
careful of their words and manners when she was with
them. Much, too, they grew to love and pet the
little Willie, who, accustomed to the free range of
Spring Bank, asserted the same right at Terrace Hill,
going where he pleased, putting himself so often in
Mrs. Richards’ way, that she began at last to
notice him, and if no one was near, to caress the handsome
boy. Asenath and Eudora held out longer, but even
they were not proof against Willie’s winning
ways.

It was many weeks ere Adah wrote to Alice Johnson,
and when at last she did, she said of Terrace Hill:

“I am happier here than I at first supposed
it possible. The older ladies were so proud,
so cold, so domineering, that it made me very wretched,
in spite of sweet Anna’s kindness. But there
has come a perceptible change, and they now treat
me civilly, if nothing more, while I do believe they
are fond of Willie, and would miss him if he were
gone.”

Adah was right in this conjecture; for had it now
been optional with the Misses Richards whether Willie
should go or stay, they would have kept him there
from choice, so cheery and pleasant he made the house.
Adah was still too pretty, too stylish, to suit their
ideas of a servant; but when, as time passed on, they
found she did not presume at all on her good looks,
but meekly kept her place as Anna’s maid or companion,
they dropped the haughty manner they had at first
assumed, and treated her with civility, if not with
kindness.

With Anna it was different. Won by Adah’s
gentleness and purity, she came at last to love her
almost as much as if she had been a younger sister.
Adah was not a servant to her, but a companion, a friend,
with whom she daily held familiar converse, learning
from her much that was good, and prizing her more
and more as the winter weeks went swiftly by.

Since the morning when Adah confided to her a part
of her history, she had never alluded to it or intimated
a desire to hear more; but she thought much about
it, revolving in her mind various expedients for finding
and bringing back to his allegiance the recreant lover.

“If I were not bound to secrecy,” she
thought one day, as she sat waiting for Adah’s
return from the post office, “if I were not bound
to secrecy, I would tell Brother John, and perhaps
he might think of something. Men’s wits
are sometimes better than women’s. When
she comes back from the office I mean to see what
she’ll say.”

Page 158

Adah did not join Anna at once, but went instead to
her own room, where she could read and cry alone over
the nice long letter from Alice Johnson, telling how
much they missed her, how old Sam pined for Willie,
how Mrs. Worthington and Hugh mourned for Adah, and
how she, Alice, prayed for the dear friend, never
so dear as now that she was gone. Many and minute
were Alice’s inquiries as to whether Adah had
yet seen Dr. Richards, when was he expected home,
and so forth.

Adah placed her letter in her pocket, and then went
to sit with Anna, whose face lighted up at once, for
Adah’s society was like sunshine to her monotonous
life.

“Rose,” she said, after an interval of
silence had elapsed, “I have been thinking about
you all day, and wishing I might do you good.
You have never told me the city where you met Willie’s
father, and I fancied it might be Boston, until I
remembered that your advertisement was in the Herald.
Was it Boston?”

It was a direct question, and Adah answered frankly.

“It was in New York,” while Anna quickly
rejoined.

“Oh, I’m so glad! for now you’ll
let me tell Brother John. He has lived there
so much he must know everybody, or at all events he
may find that man and bring him back. You will
have to give his name, of course.”

Adah’s face was white as ashes, as she replied:

“No, no—­oh, no. He could not
find him. Nobody can but God. I am willing
to wait His time. Don’t tell your brother,
Miss Anna—­don’t.”

She spoke so earnestly, and seemed so distressed,
that Anna answered at once:

“I will not without your permission, though
I’d like to so much. He is coming home
by-and-by. His wedding day is fixed for April
——­, and he will visit us before
that time, to see about our preparations for receiving
’Lina. We somehow expected a letter to-day.
Did you get one?”

“Yes, one for your mother—­from the
doctor, I think,” Adah replied, without telling
how faint the sight of the handwriting had made her,
it was so like George’s—­not exactly
like his, either, but enough so to make her heart
beat painfully as she recalled the only letter she
ever received from him, the fatal note which broke
her heart.

“It is so very long since I had a letter all
to myself, that I wonder how it would seem,”
Anna rejoined. “I have not had one since—­since—­”

“The day I came there was one for you,”
said Adah, while Anna looked wonderingly at her, saying,
“You are mistaken, I’m sure. I’ve
no remembrance of it. A letter from whom?”

Adah did not know from whom or where. She only
knew there was one, and by way of refreshing Anna’s
memory, she said:

“Jim put it with the others on the table, and
it fell behind the curtain, where I found it in the
afternoon. I was bringing it to you myself, but
your mother took it from me and said she would carry
it up while I swept the parlor. Surely you remember
now.”

Page 159

No, Anna did not, and she looked so puzzled that Adah,
anxious to set the matter right, continued:

“I remember it particularly, because it was
spelled A-n-n-i-e instead of Anna.”

Adah was not prepared for the sudden start, the look
almost of terror in Anna’s eyes, or for the
color which stained the usually colorless face.
In all the world there was but one person who ever
called her Annie, or wrote it so, and that person
was Charlie. Had he written at last, and if so,
why had she never known it? Could it be her proud
mother had withheld what would have been life to her
slowly dying daughter? It was terrible to suspect
such a thing, and Anna struggled to cast the thought
aside, saying to Adah. “Was there anything
else peculiar about it?”

“Nothing, except that ’twas inclosed in
a mourning envelope, sealed with wax, and the letter
on the seal was—­was—­”

“Oh, pray think quick. You have not forgotten.
You must not forget,” and Anna’s soft
blue eyes grew dark with intense excitement as Adah
tried to recall the initial on that seal.

“She had not noticed particularly, she did not
suppose it was important. She was not certain,
but she believed—­yes, she was nearly sure—­the
letter was ‘M.’”

“Oh, you do not know how much good you have
done me,” Anna cried, and laying her throbbing
head on Adah’s neck, she wept a torrent of tears,
wrung out by the knowing that Charlie had not forgotten
her quite. He had written, and that of itself
was joy, even though he loved another.

“The initial was ’M.’—­you
are sure, you are sure,” she kept whispering,
while Adah soothed the poor head, wondering at Anna’s
agitation, and in a measure guessing the truth, the
old story, love, whose course had not run smoothly.

“And mother took it,” Anna said at last,
growing more composed.

“Yes, she said she would bring it to you,”
was Adah’s reply.

For several minutes Anna sat looking out upon the
snowy landscape, her usually smooth brow wrinkled
with thought, and her eyes gleaming with a strange,
new light. There was a shadow on her fair face,
a grieved, injured expression, as if her mother’s
treachery had hurt her cruelly. She knew the
letter was withheld, and her first impulse was to demand
it at once. But Anna dreaded a scene, and dreaded
her mother, too, and after a moment’s reflection
that her Charlie would write again, and Adah, who
now went regularly to the office, would get it and
bring it to her, she said:

“Does mother always look over the letters?”

“Not at first,” was Adah’s reply,
“but now she meets me at the door, and takes
them from my hand.”

Anna was puzzled. Turning again to Adah, she
said:

“I wish you to go always to the office, and
if there comes another letter for me, bring it up
at once. It’s mine.”

Page 160

Anna had no desire now to talk with Adah of the recreant
lover, or ask that John should hear the story.
Her mind was too much disturbed, and for more than
half an hour she sat, looking intently into the fire,
seeing there visions of what might be in case Charlie
loved her still, and wished her to be his wife.
The mere knowing that he had written made her so happy
that she could not even be angry with her mother, though
a shadow flitted over her face, when her reverie was
broken by the entrance of Madam Richards, who had
come to see what she thought of fitting up the west
chambers for John’s wife, instead of the north
ones.

“I have a letter from him,” she said.
“They are to be married the ——­
day of April, which leaves us only five weeks more,
as they will start at once for Terrace Hill.
Do, Anna, look interested,” she continued, rather
pettishly, as Anna did not seem very attentive.
“I am so bothered. I want to see you alone,”
and she cast a furtive glance at Adah, who left the
room, while madam plunged at once into the matter
agitating her so much.

She had fully intended going to Kentucky with her
son, but ’Lina had objected, and the doctor
had written, saying she must not go.

“I have not the money myself,” he wrote,
“and I’ll have to get trusted for my wedding
suit, so you must appeal to Anna’s good nature
for the wherewithal with which to fix the rooms.
She may stay with you longer than you anticipate.
It is too expensive living here, as she would expect
to live. Nothing but Fifth Avenue Hotel would
suit her, and I cannot ask her for funds at once.
I’d rather come to it gradually.”

And this it was which so disturbed Mrs. Richards’
peace of mind. She could not go to Kentucky,
and she might as well have saved the money she had
expended in getting her black silk velvet dress fixed
for the occasion, while, worst of all, she must have
John’s wife there for months, perhaps, whether
she liked it or not, and she must also fit up the
rooms with paper and paint and carpets, notwithstanding
that she’d nothing to do it with, unless Anna
generously gave the necessary sum from her own yearly
income. Anna assented to that, and said she would
try to spare the money. Rose could make the carpets,
and that would save a little.

“I wish, too, mother,” she added, “that
you would let her arrange the rooms altogether.
She has exquisite taste, besides the faculty of making
the most of things. Our house never looked so
well as it has since she came. Somehow Eudora
and Asenath have such a stiff set way of putting the
furniture.”

So it was Anna who selected the tasteful carpet for
’Lina’s boudoir, and the bedchamber beyond
it, but it was Adah who made it, Adah who, with Willie
playing on the floor, bent so patiently over the heavy
fabric, sometimes wiping away the bitter tears as
she thought of the days preceding her own bridal,
and of her happiness, even though no fingers were
busy for her in the home where they were too proud
to receive her. Where was that home? Was
it North or South, East or West, and what was it like?
She had no idea, though, sometimes fancy had whispered
that it might have been like Terrace Hill, that George’s
haughty mother, who had threatened to turn her from
the door, was a second Mrs. Richards, and then an
involuntary prayer of thanksgiving escaped her lips
for the trial she had escaped.

Page 161

Frequently doubts crossed her mind as to the future,
when it might be known that she came from Spring Bank,
and knew the expected bride. Would she not be
blamed as a party in the deception? Ought she
not to tell Anna frankly that she knew her brother’s
betrothed? She did not know, and the harassing
anxiety wore upon her faster than all the work she
had to do.

Anna seemed very happy. Excitement was what she
needed, and never since her girlish days had she been
so bright and active as she was now, assisting Adah
in her labors, and watching the progress of affairs.
The new carpets looked beautiful when upon the floor,
and gave to the rooms a new and cozy aspect.
The muslin curtains, done up by the laundress so carefully,
lest they should drop to pieces, looked almost as good
as new, and no one would have suspected that the pretty
cornice had been made from odds and ends found by
Adah in an ancient box up in the lumber-room.
The white satin bows which looped the curtains back,
were tied by Adah’s hands.

And during all this while came there to Adah’s
heart no suspicion for whom and whose she was thus
laboring? No strange interest in the bridegroom,
the handsome doctor, so doted upon by mother and sisters?
None whatever. She scarcely remembered him, or
if she did, it was as one toward whom she was utterly
indifferent. He would not notice her. He
might not notice Willie, though yes, she rather thought
he would like her boy; everybody did, and the young
mother bent down to kiss her child, and so hide the
blush called up by a remembrance of Irving Stanley’s
kindness on that sad journey to Terrace Hill.

Rapidly the few days went by, bringing at last the
very morning when he was expected. Brightly,
warmly the April sun looked in upon Adah, wondering
at the load upon her spirits. She did not associate
it with the doctor, nor with anything in particular.
She did not know for certain that she should even
see him. She might and she might not, but if
she did perchance stumble upon him, she would a little
rather he should see that she was not like ordinary
waiting-maids. She would make a good impression!

And so she wore the pretty dark French calico which
Anna had given to her, fastened the neat linen collar
with a chaste little pin, buttoned her snow-white
cuffs, thrust a clean handkerchief into the dainty
pocket on the outside of her skirt, and then descended
to the drawing-room to see that the fires were burning
briskly, for spite of the cheerful sunshine pouring
in, the morning was cold and frosty. They had
delayed their breakfast until the doctor should come,
and in the dining-room the table was laid with unusual
care. Everything was in its place, and still
Adah fluttered around it like a restless bird, lingering
by what she knew was the doctor’s chair, taking
up his knife, examining his napkin ring, and wondering
what he would think of the cheap bone rings used at
Spring Bank.

In the midst of her cogitations, the door bell rang,
and she heard the tramp of horses’ feet as Jim
drove around to the stable. The doctor had come
and she must go, but where was Willie?

Page 162

“Willie, Willie,” she called, but Willie
paid no heed, and as Eudora had said, was directly
under foot when she unlocked the door, his the first
form distinctly seen, his the first face which met
the doctor’s view, and his fearless baby laugh
the first sound, which welcomed the doctor home!

CHAPTER XXXV

THE RESULT

It was not a disagreeable picture—­that
chubby, rose-cheeked little boy. Willie had run
to the door because he heard the bell. He had
not expected to see a stranger, and at sight of the
tall figure he drew back timidly and half hid himself
behind Mrs. Richards, whom he knew to be the warmest
ally he had in the hall.

As the doctor had said to Irving Stanley, he disliked
children, but he could not help noticing Willie, and
after the first greetings were over he asked, “Who
have we here? Whose child is this?”

Eudora and Asenath tried to frown, but the expression
of their faces softened perceptibly as they glanced
at Willie, who had followed them into the parlor,
and who, with one little foot thrown forward, and his
fat hands pressed together, stood upon the hearth rug,
gazing at the doctor with that strange look which
had so often puzzled, bewildered and fascinated the
entire Richards’ family.

“Anna wrote you that the maid she so much wanted
had come to her at last—­a very ladylike
person, who has evidently seen better days, and this
is her child, Willie Markham. He is such a queer
little fellow that we allow him more liberties than
we ought.”

It was Mrs. Richards who volunteered this explanation,
while her son stood looking down at Willie, wondering
what it was about the child which seemed familiar.
Anna had casually mentioned Rose Markham in her letter,
had said how much she liked her, and had spoken of
her boy, but the doctor was too much absorbed in his
own affairs to care for Rose Markham; so he had not
thought of her since, notwithstanding that ’Lina
had tried many times to make him speak of Anna’s
maid, so as to calculate her own safety. The
sight of Willie, however, set the doctor to thinking,
and finally carried him back to the crowded car, the
shrieking child, and the young woman to whom Irving
Stanley had been so kind.

“I hope I shall not be obliged to see her,”
he thought, and then he answered his mother’s
speech concerning Willie. “So you’ve
taken to petting a servant’s child, for want
of something better. Just wait until my boy comes
here.”

Eudora tried to blush, Asenath looked unconscious,
while Mrs. Richards replied: “If I ever
have a grandson one half as pretty or as bright as
Willie, I shall be satisfied.”

The doctor did not know how rapidly a lively, affectionate
child will win one’s love, and he thought his
proud mother grown almost demented; but still, in
spite of himself, he more than once raised his hand
to lay it on Willie’s head, pausing occasionally
in his conversation to watch the gambols of the playful
child sporting on the carpet.

Page 163

“Willie, Willie,” called Adah from a distant
room, where she was looking for him. “Willie,
Willie,” and as the silvery tone fell on the
doctor’s ears he started suddenly.

“Who is that?” he asked, his heart throbs
growing fainter as his mother replied: “That
is Mrs. Markham. Singularly sweet voice for a
person in humble life, don’t you think so?”

The doctor’s reply was cut short by the entrance
of Anna, and in his joy at meeting his favorite sister
and the excitement at the breakfast which followed
immediately, the doctor forgot Rose Markham, who had
succeeded in capturing Willie and borne him to her
own room. After breakfast was over he went with
Anna to inspect the rooms which Adah had fitted for
his bride. They were very pleasant, and fastidious
as he was he could find fault with nothing. The
carpet, the curtains, the new light furniture, the
armchair by the window where ’Lina was expected
to sit, the fanciful workbasket standing near, and
his chair not far away, all were in perfect taste,
and passing his arm caressingly about Anna’s
waist he said: “It’s very nice, and
I thank my little sister so much; of course, I am
wholly indebted to you.”

“Not of course. I furnished means, it is
true, but another than myself planned and executed
the effect,” and sitting down in ’Lina’s
chair, Anna told her brother of Rose Markham, so beautiful,
so refined, and so perfectly ladylike. “You
must see her, and judge for yourself. Can’t
I think of some excuse for sending for her?”
she said.

And so the golden moment was lost, and Adah was not
sent for, while in his bridal rooms the doctor sat,
trying to be interested in all that Anna was saying,
trying to believe he should be happy when ’Lina
was his wife, and trying, oh, so hard, to shut out
the vision of another, who should have been there
in his own home, instead of lying in some lonesome
grave, as he believed she was, with her baby on her
bosom. Poor Lily!

It was a great mistake he made when he cast Lily off,
but it could not now be helped. No tears, no
regrets, could bring back the dear little form laid
away beneath the grassy sod, and so he would not waste
his time in idle mourning. He would do the best
he could with ’Lina. He did believe she
loved him. He was almost sure of it, and as a
means of redressing Lily’s wrongs he would be
kind to her.

And where all this while was Adah? Had she no
curiosity, no desire to see the man about whom she
had heard so much? Doubtless she had, and would
have sought an occasion for gratifying it, had not
the rather too talkative Pamelia accidentally overheard
the doctor’s remark concerning “smart
waiting maids,” and repeated it to her, with
sundry little embellishments in tone and manner.
Piqued more than she cared to acknowledge, Adah decided
not to trouble him if she could help it, and so kept
out of his way, by staying mostly in her own room,
where she was busy with sewing for Anna.

Page 164

Once, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, she
felt the hot blood stain her face and prickle the
very roots of her hair, as a step, heavier than a
woman’s, came along the soft, carpeted hall,
and seemed to pause opposite her door, which stood
partially ajar. She was sitting with her back
that way, and so the doctor only saw the outline of
her graceful form bending over her work, confessing
to himself how graceful, how pliant, how girlish it
was. He noted, too, the braids of silken hair
drooping behind the well-shaped ears, just as Lily
used to wear hers. Dear Lily! Her hair was
much like Rose Markham’s, not quite so dark,
perhaps, or so luxuriant, for seldom had he seen locks
so abundant and glossy as those adorning Rose Markham’s
head.

Slowly the twilight shadows were creeping over Terrace
Hill and into the little room, where, with doors securely
shut, Adah was preparing for her accustomed walk to
the office. But what was it which fell like a
thunderbolt on her ear, riveting her to the spot, where
she stood, rigid and immovable as a block of granite
cut from the solid rock? Between the closet and
Anna’s room there was only a thin partition,
and when the door was open every sound was distinctly
heard. The doctor had just come in, and it was
his voice, heard for the first time, which sent the
blood throbbing so madly through Adah’s veins
and made the sparks of fire dance before her eyes.
She was not deceived—­the tones were too
distinct, too full, too well remembered to be mistaken,
and stretching out her hands in the dim darkness,
she moaned faintly: “George! ’tis
George!” and she sank upon the floor. She
could hear him now saying to Anna, as her moan fell
on his ear, “What was that Anna? Are we
not alone? I wish to speak my farewell words
in private.”

“Yes, all alone,” Anna replied, “unless—­”
and stepping to Adah’s door she called twice
for Rose Markham.

But Adah, though she tried to do so, could neither
move nor speak, and Anna failed to see the figure
crouching in the darkness, poor, crushed, wretched
Adah, who could not dispute her when returning to her
brother she said, “There is no one there; Rose
has gone to the post office. I heard her as she
went out. We are all alone. Was it anything
particular you wished to tell me?”

Again the familiar tones thrilled on Adah’s
ears as Dr. Richards replied: “Nothing
very particular. I only wished to say a few words,
’Lina. I want you to like her, to make up,
if possible, for the love I ought to give her.”

“Ought to give her! Oh, brother, are you
taking ’Lina without love? Better never
make the vow than break it after it is made.”

Anna spoke earnestly, and the doctor, who always tried
to retain her good opinion, replied evasively:
“I suppose I do love her as well as half the
world love their wives before marriage, but she is
different from any ladies I have known; so different
from what poor Lily was. Anna, let me talk with
you again of Lily. I never told you all—­but
what is that?” he continued, as he indistinctly
heard the choking, gasping, stifled sob which Adah
gave at the sound of the dear pet name. Anna
answered: “It’s only the rising wind.
It sounds so always when it’s in the east.
We surely are alone. What of Lily? Do you
wish you were going after her instead of ’Lina?”

Page 165

Oh, why did the doctor hesitate a moment? Why
did he suffer his dread of losing Anna’s respect
to triumph over every other feeling? He had meant
to tell her all, how he did love the gentle girl, the
little more than child, who confided herself to him—­how
he loved even her memory now far more than he loved
’Lina, but something kept the full confession
back, and he answered:

“I don’t know. We must have money,
and ’Lina is rich, while Lily was very poor,
and the only friend or relation she knew was one with
whom I would not dare have you come in contact, so
wicked and reckless he was.”

This was what the doctor said, and into the brown
eyes, now bloodshot and dim with anguish, there came
the hard, fierce look, before which Alice Johnson
once had shuddered, when Adah Hastings said:

“I should hate him! Yes, I should hate
him!”

And in that dark hour of agony Adah felt that she
did hate him. She knew now that what she before
would not believe was true. He had not made her
a lawful wife, else he had never dared to take another.

She did not hear him now, for with that prayer, all
consciousness forsook her, and she lay on her face
insensible, while at the very last he did confess
to Anna that Lily was his wife. He did not say
unlawfully so. He could not tell her that.
He said:

“I married her privately. I would bring
her back if I could, but I cannot, and I shall marry
’Lina.”

“But,” and Anna grasped his hand nervously.
“I thought you told me once, that you won her
love, and then, when mother’s harsh letters came,
left her without a word. Was that story false?”

The doctor was wading out in deep water, and in desperation
he added lie to lie, saying:

“Yes, that was false. I tell you I married
her, and she died. Was I to blame for that?”

“No, no. I’d far rather it were so.
I respect you more than if you had left her.
I am glad, not that she died, but that you are not
so bad as I feared. Sweet Lily,” and Anna’s
tears flowed fast.

There was a knock at the door, and Jim appeared, inquiring
if the doctor would have the carriage brought around.
It was nearly time to go, and with the whispered words
to Anna, “I have told you what no one else must
ever know,” the doctor descended with his sister
to the parlor, where his mother was waiting for him.
The opening and shutting of the door caused a draught
of air, which, falling on the fainting Adah, restored
her to consciousness, and struggling to her feet, she
tried to think what it was that had happened.

“Oh, George! George!” she gasped.
“You are worse than I believed. You have
made me an outcast, and Willie—­”

George was a greater villain than she had imagined
a man could be, and again her white lips essayed to
curse him, but the rash act was stayed by the low
words whispered in her ear, “Forgive as we would
be forgiven.”

“If it were not for Willie, I might, but, oh!
my boy, my boy disgraced,” was the rebellious
spirit’s answer, when again the voice whispered,
“And who art thou to contend against thy God?
Know you not that I am the Father of the fatherless?”

Page 166

There were tears now in Adah’s eyes, the first
which she had shed.

“I’ll try,” she murmured, “try
to forgive the wrong, but the strength must all be
Thine,” and then, though there came no sound
or motion, her heart went out in agonizing prayer,
that she might forgive even as she hoped to be forgiven.

“God tell me what to do with Willie?”
she sobbed, starting suddenly as the answer to her
prayer seemed to come at once. “Oh, can
I do that?” she moaned; “can I leave him
here?”

At first her whole soul recoiled from it, but when
she remembered Anna, and how much she loved the child,
her feelings began to change. Anna would love
him more when she knew he was poor Lily’s and
her own brother’s. She would be kind to
him for his father’s sake, and for the sake
of the girl she had professed to like. Mrs. Richards,
too, would not cast him off. She thought too
much of the Richards’ blood, and there was surely
enough in Willie’s veins to wipe out all taint
of hers. Willie should be bequeathed to Anna.
It would break her heart to leave him, were it not
already broken, but it was better so. It would
be better in the end. He would forget her in
time, forget the girlish woman he had called mamma,
unless sweet Anna told him of her, as perhaps she
might. Dear Anna, how Adah longed to fold her
arms about her once and call her sister, but she must
not. It might not be well received, for Anna
had some pride, as her waiting maid had learned.

“A waiting maid!” Adah repeated the name,
smiling bitterly as she thought. “A waiting
maid in his own home! Who would have dreamed that
I should ever come to this, when he painted the future
so grandly?”

Then there came over her the wild, yearning desire
to see his face once more, to know if he had changed,
and why couldn’t she? They supposed her
gone to the office, and she would go there now, taking
the depot on the way.

* * * *
*

Apart in the ladies’ room at Snowdon depot,
a veiled figure sat—­Dr. Richards’
deserted wife—­waiting for him, waiting to
look on his face once more ere she fled she knew not
whither. He came at last, Jim’s voice speaking
to his horses heralding his approach.

The group of rough-looking men gathered about the
office did not suit his mood, and so he came on to
the ladies’ apartment, just as Adah knew he
would. Pausing for a moment on the threshold,
he looked hastily in, his glance falling upon the
veiled figure sitting there so lonely and motionless.
She did not care for him, she would not object to his
presence, so he came nearer to the stove, poising his
patent leathers upon the hearth, thrusting both hands
into his pockets, and even humming to himself snatches
of a song, which Lily used to sing up the three flights
of stairs in that New York boarding house.

Poor Adah! How white and cold she grew, listening
to that air, and gazing upon the face she had loved
so well. It was changed since the night when
with his kiss warm on her lips he left her forever,
changed, and for the worse. There was a harder,
a more reckless, determined expression there, a look
which better than words could have done, told that
self alone was the god he worshiped.

Page 167

Once, as he walked up and down the room, passing so
near to her that she might have touched him with her
hand, she felt an almost irresistible desire to thrust
her thick brown veil aside, and confronting him to
his face, claim from him what she had a right to claim,
his name and a position as his wife—­only
for Willie’s sake, however; for herself she
did not wish it.

It was a relief when at last the roll of the cars
was heard, and buttoning his coat still closer around
him, he turned toward the door, half looking back
to see if the veiled figure too had risen. It
had, and was standing close beside him, its outside
garments sweeping his as the crowd increased, pressing
her nearer to him, but Adah passed back into the ladies’
room, and opening the rear door was out in the street
again almost before the train had left the station.
George was gone—­lost to her forever! and
with a piteous moan for her ruined life, Adah kept
on her way till the post office was reached.

There were four letters in the box—­one
for Mrs. Richards, from an absent brother; one for
Eudora, from Lottie Gardner; one for Asenath, from
an old friend, and at the bottom, last of all, one
for Annie Richards, faced with black, and bearing
the initial “M.” upon the seal of wax.

Adah saw all this, but it conveyed no meaning to her
mind except a vague remembrance that at some time
or other, very, very long years it seemed, Anna had
bidden her keep from her mother any letter directed
to herself in a mourning envelope. Adah retained
just sense enough to do this, and separating the letter
from the others, thrust it into her pocket, and then
took her way back to Terrace Hill.

Willie was asleep; and as Pamelia, who brought him
up, had thoughtfully undressed and placed him in bed,
there was nothing for Adah to do but think. She
should go away, of course; she could not stay there
longer; but how should she tell them why she went,
and who would be her medium for communication?

“Anna, of course,” she whispered; and
lighting her little lamp, she sat down to write the
letter which would tell Anna Richards who was the
waiting maid to whom she had been so kind.

“Dear Anna,” she wrote. “Forgive
me for calling you so this once, for indeed I cannot
help it. You have been so kind to me that if my
heart could ache, it would ache terribly at leaving
you and knowing it was forever. I am going away
from you, Anna; and when, in the morning, you wait
for me to come as usual, I shall not be here, I could
not stay and meet your brother when he returns.
Oh, Anna, Anna, how shall I begin to tell you what
I know will grieve and shock your pure nature so dreadfully?

“Anna!—­I love to call you Anna now,
for you seem, near to me; and believe me, while I
write this to you, I am conscious of no feeling of
inferiority to any one bearing your proud name.
I am, or should have been, your equal, your sister;
and Willie!—­oh, my boy, when I think of
him, the feeling comes and I almost seem to be going
mad!

Page 168

“Cannot you guess?—­don’t you
know now who I am? God forgive your brother,
as I asked him to do, kneeling there by the very chair
where he sat an hour since, talking to you of Lily.
I heard him, and the sound of his voice took power
and strength away. I could not move to let you
know I was there, for I was, and I lay upon the floor
till consciousness forsook me; and then, when I awoke
again, you both were gone.

“I went to the depot, I saw him in his face
to make assurance sure, and Anna, I—­oh,
I don’t know what I am. The world would
not call me a wife, though I believed I was; but they
cannot deal thus cruelly by Willie, or wash from his
veins his father’s blood, for I—­I,
who write this, I who have been a servant in the house
where I should have been the mistress, am Lily—­wronged,
deserted Lily—­and Willie is your brother’s
child! His father’s look is in his face.
I see it there so plainly now, and know why that boy
portrait of your brother has puzzled me so much.
But when I came here I had no suspicion, for he won
me, not as a Richards—­George Hastings,
that was the name by which I knew him, and I was Adah
Gordon. If you do not believe me, ask him when
he comes back if ever in his wanderings he met with
Adah Gordon, or her guardian, Mr. Monroe. Ask
if he was ever present at a marriage where this same
Adah gave her heart to one for whom she would then
have lost her life, erring in that she loved the gift
more than the giver; but God punished idolatry, and
He has punished me, so sorely, oh so sorely; that
sometimes my fainting soul cries out, ‘’Tis
more than I can bear,’”

Then followed more particulars so that there should
be no doubt, and then the half-crazed Adah took up
the theme nearest to her heart, her boy, her beautiful
Willie. She could not take him with her.
She knew not where she was going, and Willie must
not suffer. Would Anna take the child?

“I do not ask that the new bride should ever
call him hers,” she wrote; “I’d
rather she would not. I ask that you should give
him a mother’s care, and if his father will
sometimes speak kindly to him for the sake of the
older time when he did love the mother, tell him—­Willie’s
father, I mean—­tell him, oh I know not what
to bid you tell him, except that I forgive him, though
at first it was so hard, and the words refused to
come; I trusted him so much, loved him so much, and
until I had it from his own lips, believed I was his
wife. But that cured me; that killed the love,
if any still existed, and now, if I could, I would
not be his, unless it were for Willie’s sake.

“And now farewell. God deal with you, dear
Anna, as you deal with my boy.”

Page 169

Calmly, steadily, Adah folded up the missive, and
laying it with the mourning envelope, busied herself
next in making the necessary preparations for her
flight. Anna had been liberal with her in point
of wages, paying her every week, and paying more than
at first agreed upon; and as she had scarcely spent
a penny during her three months’ sojourn at
Terrace Hill, she had, including what Alice had given
to her, nearly forty dollars. She was trying
so hard to make it a hundred, and so send it to Hugh
some day; but she needed it most herself, and she placed
it carefully in her little purse, sighing over the
golden coin which Anna had paid her last, little dreaming
for what purpose it would be used. She would
not change her dress until Anna had retired, as that
might excite suspicion; so with the same rigid apathy
of manner she sat down by Willie’s side and
waited till Anna was heard moving in her room.
The lamp was burning dimly on the bureau, and so Anna
failed to see the frightful expression of Adah’s
face, as she performed her accustomed duties, brushing
Anna’s hair, and letting her hands linger caressingly
amid the locks she might never touch again.

It did strike Anna that something was the matter;
for when Adah spoke to her, the voice was husky and
unnatural. Still, she paid no attention until
the chapter was read as usual and “Our Father”
said; then, as Adah lingered a moment, still kneeling
by the bed, she laid her soft hand on the young head,
and asked, kindly, “if it ached.”

“No, not my head, not my head,” and Adah
continued impetuously; “Anna, tell me, have
I pleased you?—­do you like me? would you,
could you love me if I were your equal—­love
me as I do you?”

Anna noticed that the “Miss” was dropped
from her name, that her maid was treating her more
familiarly than she had ever done before; and for
an instant a flush showed on her cheek, for pride was
Anna’s besetting sin, the one from which she
daily prayed to be delivered. There was an inward
struggle, a momentary conflict, such as every Christian
warrior has felt at times, and then the flush was
gone from the white cheek, and her hand still lay
on Adah’s head, as she replied: “I
do not understand why you question me thus, but I
will answer just the same. I do like you very
much, and you have always seemed to me much like an
equal. I could hardly do without you now.”

“And Willie? If I should die, or anything
happen to me, would you care for Willie?”

There was something very earnest in Adah’s tone
as she pleaded for her boy, and had Anna been at all
suspicious, she must have guessed there was something
wrong. As it was, she merely thought Adah tired
and nervous. She had been thinking, perhaps,
of the deserted, and she smoothed her hair pityingly
as she replied: “Of course I’d care
for Willie. He has won a large place in my heart.”

“Bless you for that. It has made me very
happy,” Adah whispered, arising to her feet
and adding: “You may think me bold, but
I must kiss you once—­only once—­for
it will be pleasant to remember that I kissed Anna
Richards.”

Page 170

There was nothing cringing or even pleading in the
tone. Adah seemed to ask it as her right, and
ere Anna could answer she had pressed one burning
kiss upon the smooth, white forehead which a menial’s
lips had never touched before, and was gone from the
room.

“Was she crazy, or what was it that ailed her?”
Anna asked herself, wondering more and more, the more
she thought of the strange conduct, and lying awake
long after the usual hour for sleep.

But wakeful as she was, there was one who kept the
vigils with her, knowing exactly when she fell away
at last into a slumber all the deeper for the restlessness
which had preceded it. Anna slept very soundly
as Adah knew she would, and when toward morning a light
footstep glided across her threshold she did not hear
it. The bolt was drawn, the key was turned, and
just as the clock struck three, Adah stood outside
the yard, leaning on the gate and gazing back at the
huge building looming up so dark and grand beneath
the starry sky. One more prayer for Willie and
the mother-auntie to whose care she had left him, one
more straining glance at the window of the little
room where he lay sleeping, and she resolutely turned
away, nor stopped again until the Danville depot was
reached the station where in less than five minutes
after her arrival the night express stood for an instant,
and then went thundering on, bearing with it another
passenger, bound for—­she knew not, cared
not whither.

CHAPTER XXXVI

EXCITEMENT

They were not early risers at Terrace Hill, and the
morning following Adah’s flight Anna slept later
than usual; nor was it until Willie’s baby cry,
calling for mamma, was heard, that she awoke, and thinking
Adah had gone down for something, she bade Willie come
to her. Putting out her arms she lifted him carefully
into her own bed, and in doing so brushed from her
pillow the letters left for her. But it did not
matter then, and for a full half hour she lay waiting
for Adah’s return. Growing impatient at
last, she stepped upon the floor, her bare feet touching
something cold, something which made her look down
and find that she was stepping on a letter—­not
one, but two—­and in wondering surprise
she turned them to the light, half fainting with excitement,
when on the back of the first one examined she saw
the old familiar handwriting, and knew that Charlie
had written again!

Anna had hardly been human had she waited an instant
ere she tore open the envelope and learned how many
times and with how little success Charlie Millbrook
had written to her since his return from India.
He had not forgotten her. The love of his early
manhood had increased with his maturer years, and
he could not be satisfied until he heard from her
that he was remembered and still beloved.

This was Charlie’s letter, this what Anna read,
feeling far too happy to be angry at her mother, and
delicious tears of joy flowed over her beautiful face,
as, pressing the paper to her lips, she murmured:

Page 171

“Dear Charlie! darling Charlie! I knew
he was not false, and I thank the kind Father for
bringing him at last to me.”

Hiding it in her bosom, Anna took the other letter
then, and throwing her shawl around her, for she was
beginning to shiver with cold, sat down by the window
and read it through—­read it once, read it
twice, read it thrice, and then—­sure never
were the inmates of Terrace Hill thrown into so much
astonishment and alarm as they were that April morning,
when, in her cambric night robe, her long hair falling
unbound about her shoulders, and her bare feet, gleaming
white and cold upon the floor, Miss Anna went screaming
from room to room, and asking her wonder-stricken
mother and sisters if they had any idea who it was
that had been an inmate of their house for so many
weeks.

“Come with me, then,” she almost screamed,
and dragging her mother to her room, where Willie
sat up in bed, looking curiously about him and uncertain
whether to cry or to laugh, she exclaimed, “Look
at him, mother, and you, too, Asenath and Eudora!”
turning to her sisters, who had followed. “Tell
me who is he like? He is John’s child.
And Rose was Lily, the young girl whom you forbade
him to marry! Listen, mother, you shall listen
to what your pride has done!” and grasping the
bewildered Mrs. Richards by the arm, Anna held her
fast while she read aloud the letter left by Adah.

Mrs. Richards fainted. She soon recovered, however,
and listened eagerly while Anna repeated all her brother
had ever told her of Lily.

Poor Willie! He was there in the bed, looking
curiously at the four women, none of whom seemed quite
willing to own him save Anna. Her heart took
him in at once. He had been given to her.
She would be faithful to the trust, and folding him
in her arms, she cried softly over him, kissing his
little face and calling him her darling.

“Anna, how can you fondle such as he?”
Eudora asked, rather sharply.

“He is our brother’s child. Mother,
you will not turn from your grandson,” and Anna
held the boy toward her mother, who did not refuse
to take him.

Asenath always went with her mother, and at once showed
signs of relenting by laying her hand on Willie’s
head and calling him “poor boy.”
Eudora held out longer, but Anna knew she would yield
in time, and satisfied with Willie’s reception
so far, went on to speak of Adah. Where was she,
did they suppose, and what were the best means of finding
her.

At this Mrs. Richards demurred, as did Asenath with
her.

“Adah was gone, and they had better let her
go quietly. She was nothing to them, nothing
whatever, and if they took Willie in, doing their best
with him as one of the Richards’ line, it was
all that could be required of them. Had Adah
been John’s wife, it would of course be different,
but she was not, and his marriage with ’Lina
must not now be prevented.”

This was Mrs. Richards’ reasoning, but Anna’s
was different.

Page 172

“John had distinctly said, ‘I married
Lily and she died.’ Adah was mistaken about
the marriage being unlawful. It was a falsehood
he told her. She was his wife, and he must not
be permitted to commit bigamy. She would tell
John in private. They need not try to dissuade
her, for she should go.”

This was what Anna said, and all in vain were her
mother’s entreaties to let matters take their
course. Anna only replied by going deliberately
on with the preparations for her sudden journey.
She was going to find Rose, and blessing her for this
kindness to one whom they had liked so much, Dixson
and Pamelia helped to get her ready, both promising
the best care to Willie in her absence, both asking
where she was going first and both receiving the same
answer, “To Albany.”

Mrs. Richards was too much stunned clearly to comprehend
what had happened or what would be the result; and
in a kind of apathetic maze she bade Anna good-by,
and then went back to where Willie sat upon the sofa,
examining and occasionally tearing the costly book
of foreign prints which had been given him to keep
him still and make him cease his piteous wail for
“mamma.” It seemed like a dream to
the three ladies sitting at home that night and talking
about Anna, wondering that a person of her weak nerves
and feeble health should suddenly become so active,
so energetic, so decided, and of her own accord start
off on a long journey alone and unprotected.

And Anna wondered at herself when the excitement of
leaving was past and the train was bearing her swiftly
along on her mission of duty. She had written
a few lines to Charlie Millbrook, telling him of her
unaltered love and bidding him come to her in three
weeks’ time, when she would be ready to see
him.

It was very dark and rainy, and the passengers jostled
each other rudely as they passed from the cars in
Albany and hurried to the boat. It was new business
to Anna, traveling alone and in the night, and a feeling
akin to fear was creeping over her as she wondered
where she should find the eastern train.

“Follow the crowd,” seemed yelled out
for her benefit, though it was really intended for
a timid, deaf old lady, who had anxiously asked what
to do of one whose laconic reply was: “Follow
the crowd.” And Anna did follow the crowd
which led her safely to the waiting cars. Snugly
ensconced in a seat all to herself, she vainly imagined
there was no more trouble until Cleveland or Buffalo
at least was reached. How, then, was she disappointed
when, alighting for a moment at Rochester, she found
herself in a worse babel, if possible, than had existed
at Albany. Where were all these folks going,
and which was the train? “I ought not to
have alighted at all,” she thought; “I
might have known I never could find my way back.”
Never, sure, was poor, little woman so confused and
bewildered as Anna, and it is not strange that she
stood directly upon the track, unmindful of the increasing

Page 173

din and roar as the train from Niagara Falls came
thundering into the depot. It was in vain that
the cabman nearest to her helloed to warn her of the
impending danger. She never dreamed that they
meant her, or suspected her great peril, until from
out of the group waiting to take that very train, a
tall figure sprang, and grasping her light form around
the waist, bore her to a place of safety—­not
because he guessed that it was Annie, but because
it was a human being whom he would save from a fearful
death.

“Excuse me, madam,” he began, but whatever
she might have said was lost in the low, thrilling
scream of joy with which Anna recognized him.

“Charlie, Charlie! oh, Charlie!” she cried,
burying her face in his bosom and sobbing like a child.

There was no time to waste in explanations; scarcely
time, indeed, for Charlie to ask where she was going,
and if the necessity to go on were imperative.

“You won’t leave me,” Anna whispered.

“Leave you, darling? No,” and pressing
the little fingers twining so lovingly about his own,
Charlie replied: “Whither thou goest I will
go. I shall not leave you again.”

He needed no words to tell him of the letters never
received; he knew the truth, and satisfied to have
her at last he drew her closely to him, and laying
her tired head upon his bosom, gazed fondly at the
face he had not seen in many, many years. Curious,
tittering maidens, of whom there are usually one or
two in every car, looked at that couple near the door
and whispered to their companions:

“Bride and groom. Just see how he hugs
her. Some widower, I know, married to a young
wife.”

But neither Charlie nor Anna cared for the speculations
to which they were giving rise. They had found
each other, and the happiness enjoyed during the two
hours which elapsed ere Buffalo was reached more than
made amends for all the lonely years of wretchedness
they had spent apart from each other. Charlie
had told Anna briefly of his life in India—­had
spoken feelingly, affectionately of his gentle Hattie,
who had died, blessing him with her last breath for
the kindness he had ever shown to her; of baby Annie’s
grave, by the side of which he buried the young mother;
of his loneliness after that, his failing health, his
yearning for a sight of home, his embarkation for America,
his hope through all that she might still be won;
his letters and her mother’s reply, which awakened
his suspicions, and his last letter which she received.

Sweetly she chided him, amid her tears, for not coming
to her at once, telling how she had waited and watched
with an anxious heart, ever since she heard of his
return; and then she told him next where she was going,
and why, sparing her brother as much as possible, and
dwelling long upon poor Lily’s gentleness and
beauty.

Page 174

So it was settled that Charlie should go with her,
and his presence made her far less impatient than
she would otherwise have been, when, owing to some
accident, they were delayed so long that the Cleveland
train was gone, and there was no alternative but to
wait in Buffalo. At Cincinnati there was another
detention, and it was not until the very day appointed
for the wedding that, with Charlie still beside her,
Anna entered the carriage hired at Lexington, and
started for Spring Bank, whither for a little we will
precede her, taking up the narrative prior to this
day, and about the time when ’Lina first returned
from New York, laden with arrogance and airs.

CHAPTER XXXVII

MATTERS AT SPRING BANK

It had been a bright, pleasant day in March, when
’Lina was expected home, and in honor of her
arrival the house at Spring Bank wore its most cheery
aspect; not that any one was particularly pleased because
she was coming, unless it were the mother; but it
was still an event of some importance, and so the
negroes cleaned and scrubbed and scoured, wondering
if “Miss ’Lina done fotch ’em anything,”
while Alice arranged and re-arranged the plainly-furnished
rooms, feeling beforehand how the contrast between
them and the elegancies to which ’Lina had recently
been accustomed would affect her.

Hugh had thought of the same thing, and much as it
hurt him to do it, he sold one of his pet colts, and
giving the proceeds to Alice, bade her use it as she
saw fit.

Spring Bank had never looked one-half so well before,
and the negroes were positive there was nowhere to
be found so handsome a room as the large airy parlor,
with its new Brussels carpet and curtains of worsted
brocatelle.

Even Hugh was somewhat of the same opinion, but then
he only looked at the room with Alice standing in
its center, or stooping in some corner to drive again
a refractory nail, so it is not strange that he should
judge it favorably. Ad would be pleased, he knew,
and he gave orders that the carriage and harness should
be thoroughly cleaned, and the horses well groomed,
for he would make a good impression upon his sister.

Alas, she was not worth the trouble, the proud, selfish
creature, who, all the way from Lexington to the Big
Spring station had been hoping Hugh would not take
it into his head to meet her, or if he did, that he
would not have on his homespun suit of gray, with his
pants tucked in his boots, and so disgrace her in
the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Ford, her traveling companions,
who would see him from the window. Yes, there
he was, standing expectantly upon the platform, and
she turned her head the other way pretending not to
see him until the train moved on and Hugh compelled
her notice by grasping her hand and calling her “Sister
’Lina.”

She had acquired a certain city air by her sojourn
in New York, and in her fashionably made traveling
dress and hat was far more stylish looking than when
Hugh last parted from her. But nothing abashed
he held her hand a moment while he inquired about
her journey, and then playfully added:

Page 175

“Upon my word, Ad, you have improved a heap,
in looks I mean. Of course I don’t know
about the temper. Spunky as ever, eh?” and
he tried to pinch her glowing cheek.

“Pray don’t be foolish,” was ’Lina’s
impatient reply, as she drew away from him, and turned,
with her blandest smile, to a sprig of a lawyer from
Frankfort, who chanced to be there too.

Chilled by her manner, Hugh ordered the carriage,
and told her they were ready. Once inside the
carriage, and alone with him, ’Lina’s tongue
was loosened, and she poured out numberless questions,
the first of which was, what they heard from Adah,
and if it were true, as her mother had written, that
she was at Terrace Hill as Rose Markham, and that no
one there knew of her acquaintance with Spring Bank?

Yes, he supposed it was, and he did not like it either.
“Ad,” and he turned his honest face full
toward her, “does that doctor still believe
you rich?”

“How do I know?” ’Lina replied,
frowning gloomily. “I’m not to blame
if he does. I never told him I was.”

“But your actions implied as much, which amounts
to the same thing. It’s all wrong, Ad,
all wrong. Even if he loves you, and it is to
be hoped he does, he will respect you less when he
knows how you deceived him.”

“Hadn’t you better interfere and set the
matter right?” asked ’Lina, now really
aroused.

“I did think of doing so once,” Hugh rejoined,
but ere he could say more, ’Lina grasped his
arm fiercely, her face dark with passion as she exclaimed:

“Hugh, if you meddle, you’ll rue the day.
It’s my own affair, and I know what I’m
doing.”

“I do not intend to meddle, though I encouraged
Adah in her wild plan of going to Terrace Hill, because
I thought they would learn from her just how rich
we are. But Adah has foolishly taken another name,
and says nothing of Spring Bank. I don’t
like it, neither does Miss Johnson. Indeed, I
sometimes think she is more anxious than I am.”

“Miss Johnson,” and ’Lina spoke
disdainfully, “I’d thank her to mind her
own business. Hugh, you are getting a ministerial
kind of look, and you have not sworn at me once since
we met. I guess Alice has converted you.
Well, I only hope you’ll not backslide.”

’Lina laughed hatefully, and evidently expected
an outburst of passion, but though Hugh turned very
white, he made her no reply, and they proceeded on
in silence, until they came in sight of Spring Bank,
when ’Lina broke out afresh.

Such a tumble-down shanty as that. It was not
fit for decent people to live in, and mercy knew she
was glad her sojourn there was to be short.

“You are not alone in that feeling,” came
dryly from Hugh.

’Lina said he was a very affectionate brother;
that she was glad there were those who appreciated
her, even if he did not, and then the carriage stopped
at Spring Bank. Mrs. Worthington was hearty in
her welcome, for her mother heart went out warmly
toward her daughter. Oh, what airs ’Lina
did put on, offering the tips of her fingers to good
Aunt Eunice, trying to patronize Alice herself, and
only noticing Densie Densmore with a haughty stare.

Page 176

Old Densie had for the last few days been much in
’Lina’s mind. She had disliked her
at Saratoga, and somehow it made her feel uncomfortable
every time she thought of finding her at Spring Bank.
Densie had never forgotten ’Lina, and many a
time had she recalled the peculiar expression of her
black eyes, shuddering as she remembered how much they
were like another pair of eyes whose gleams of passion
had once thrilled her with terror.

“Upon my word,” ’Lina began, as
she entered the pleasant parlor, “this is better
than I expected. Somebody has been very kind for
my sake. Miss Johnson, I’m sure it’s
you I have to thank,” and with a little flash
of gratitude she turned to Alice, who replied in a
low tone:

“Thank your brother. He made a sacrifice
for the sake of surprising you.”

Whether it was with a desire to appear amiable in
Alice’s eyes, or because she really was touched
with Hugh’s generosity, ’Lina involuntarily
threw her arm around his neck, and gave to him a kiss
which he remembered for many, many years. At the
nicely prepared dinner served soon after her arrival,
a cloud lowered on ’Lina’s brow, induced
by the fact that Densie Densmore was permitted a seat
at the table, a proceeding sadly at variance with
’Lina’s lately acquired ideas of aristocracy.

Accordingly that very day she sought an opportunity
to speak with her mother when she knew that Densie
was in an adjoining room.

“Mother,” she began, “why do you
suffer that woman to come to the table? Is it
a whim of Alice’s, or what?”

“Oh, you allude to Mrs. Densmore. I couldn’t
at first imagine whom you meant,” Mrs. Worthington
replied, going on to say how foolish it was for ’Lina
to assume such airs, that Densie was as good as anybody,
or at all events was a quiet, well-behaved woman,
worthy of respect, and that Hugh would as soon stay
away himself as banish her from the table because she
had once been a servant.

“Yes, but consider Dr. Richards when he comes.
What must he think of us? At the North they recognize
white niggers as well as black. I tell you I
won’t have it, and unless you speak to her, I
shall.”

’Lina ate her supper exultingly, free from Densie’s
presence, caring little for the lonely old woman whose
lip quivered and whose tears started every time that
she remembered the slighting words accidentally overheard.

Swiftly the days went by, bringing callers to see
’Lina; Ellen Tiffton, who received back her
jewelry, never guessing that the bracelet she clasped
upon her arm was not the same lent so many months ago.
Ellen was to be bridesmaid, inasmuch as Alice preferred
to be more at liberty, and see that matters went on
properly. This brought Ellen often to Spring
Bank, and as ’Lina was much with her, Alice was
left more time to think. Adah’s continued
silence with regard to Dr. Richards had troubled her
at first, but now she felt relieved. ’Lina
had stated distinctly that ere coming to Kentucky,
he was going to Terrace Hill, and Adah’s last
letter had said the same. She would see him then,
and if—­if he were George—­alas!
for the unsuspecting girl who fluttered gayly in the
midst of her bridal finery, and wished the time would
come when she could “escape from that hole,
and go back to dear, delightful Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

Page 177

The time which hung so heavily upon her hands was
flying rapidly, and at last only one week intervened
ere the eventful day. Hugh had gone down to Frankfort
on some errand for ’Lina, and as he passed the
penitentiary, he thought, as he always did now, of
the convict Sullivan. Was he there still, and
if so, why could he not see him face to face, and
question him of the past?

Three hours later and Hugh Worthington was confronting
the famous negro stealer, who gave him back glance
for glance, and stood as unflinchingly before him
as if there were upon his conscience no Adah Hastings,
who, by his connivance, had been so terribly wronged.
At the mention of her name, however, his bold assurance
left him. There was a quivering of the muscles
about his mouth, and his whole manner was indicative
of strong emotion as he asked if Hugh knew aught of
her since that fatal night, and then listened while
Hugh told what he knew and where she had gone.

“To Terrace Hill—­into the Richards
family; this was no chance arrangement?” and
the convict spoke huskily, asking next for the doctor;
and still Hugh did not suspect the magnitude of the
plot, and answered by telling how Dr. Richards was
coming soon to make ’Lina his wife.

Hugh was not looking at his companion then, or he
would have been appalled by the livid, fearful expression
which for an instant flashed on his face. Accustomed
to conceal his feelings, the convict did so now; and
asked calmly when the wedding would take place.
Hugh named the day and hour, and then asked if Sullivan
knew aught of Adah’s husband.

“Yes, everything,” and the convict said
vehemently, “Young man, I cannot tell you now—­there
is not time, but wait a little and you shall know
the whole. You are interested in Adah. The
wedding, you say, is Thursday night. My time
expires on Tuesday. Don’t think me impudent
if I ask a list of the invited guests. Will you
give it to me?”

Surely there was some deep mystery here, and he made
no reply till Sullivan again asked for the list.
The original paper on which Hugh had first written
the few names of those to be invited chanced to be
in his vest pocket, and mechanically taking it out
he passed it to the convict, who expressed his thanks,
and added: “Don’t say that you have
seen me, or that I shall be present at that wedding.
I shall only come for good, but I shall surely be
there.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE DAY OF THE WEDDING

Dr. Richards had arrived at Spring Bank. Hugh
was the first to meet him. For a moment he scrutinized
the stranger’s face earnestly, and then asked
if they had never met before.

“Not to my knowledge,” the doctor replied
in perfect good faith, for he had no suspicion that
the man eying him so closely was the one witness of
his marriage with Adah, the stranger whom he scarcely
noticed, and whose name he had forgotten.

Page 178

Once fully in the light, where Hugh could discern
the features plainer, he began to be less sure of
having met his guest before, for that immense mustache
and those well-trimmed whiskers had changed the doctor’s
physiognomy materially.

’Lina was glad to see the doctor. She had
even cried at his delay, and though no one knew it,
had sat up nearly the whole preceding night, waiting
and listening by her open window for any sound to herald
his approach.

As the result of this long vigil, her head ached dreadfully
the next day, and even the doctor noticed her burning
cheeks and watery eyes, and feeling her rapid pulse
asked if she were ill.

She was not, she said; she had only been troubled
because he did not come, and then for once in her
life she did a womanly act. She laid her head
in the doctor’s lap and cried, just as she had
done the previous night. He understood the cause
of her tears at last, and touched with a greater degree
of tenderness for her than he had ever before experienced,
he smoothed her glossy black hair, and asked:

“Would you be very sorry to lose me?”

Selfish and hard as she was, ’Lina loved the
doctor, and with a shudder as she thought of the deception
imposed on him, and a half regret that she had so
deceived him, she replied:

“I am not worthy of you. I do love you
very much, and it would kill me to lose you now.
Promise that when you find, as you will, how bad I
am, you will not hate me!”

It was an attempt at confession, but the doctor did
not so construe it. Poor ’Lina. It
is not often we have seen her thus—­gentle,
softened, womanly; so we will make the most of it,
and remember it in the future.

The bright sunlight of the next morning was very exhilarating,
and though the doctor, who had risen early, was disappointed
in Spring Bank, he was not at all suspicious, and
greeted his bride-elect kindly, noticing, while he
did so, how her cheeks alternately paled, and then
grew red, while she seemed to be chilly and cold.
’Lina had passed a wretched night, tossing from
side to side, bathing her throbbing head and rubbing
her aching limbs. The severe cold taken in the
wet yard was making itself visible, and she came to
the breakfast table jaded, wretched and sick, a striking
contrast to Alice Johnson, who seemed to the doctor
more beautiful than ever. She was unusually gay
this morning, for while talking to Dr. Richards, whom
she had met in the parlor, she had, among other things
concerning Snowdon, said to him, casually, as it seemed:

“Anna has a waiting maid at last. You saw
her, of course?”

Somehow the doctor fancied Alice wished him to say
yes, and as he had seen Adah’s back, he replied
at once:

“Oh, yes, I saw her. Fine looking for a
servant. Her little boy is splendid.”

Page 179

Alice was satisfied. The shadow lifted from her
spirits. Dr. Richards was not George Hastings.
He was not the villain she had feared, and ’Lina
might have him now. Poor ’Lina. Alice
felt almost as if she had done her a wrong by suspecting
the doctor, and was very kind to her that day.
Poor ’Lina, we say it again, for hard, and wicked,
and treacherous, and unfilial, as she had ever been,
she had need for pity on this her wedding day.
Retribution, terrible and crushing, was at hand, hurrying
on in the carriage bringing Anna Richards to Spring
Bank, and on the fleet-footed steed bearing the convict
swiftly up the Frankfort pike.

’Lina could not tell what ailed her. Her
hauteur of manner was all gone, and Mug, who
had come into the room to see “the finery,”
was not chidden or told to let them alone, while Densie,
who, at Alice’s suggestion, brought her a glass
of wine, was kindly thanked, and even asked to stay
if she liked while the dressing went on. But Densie
did not care to, and she left the room just as the
mud-bespattered vehicle containing Anna Richards drove
up, Mr. Millbrook having purposely stopped in Versailles,
thinking it better that Anna should go on alone.

It was Ellen of course, ’Lina said, and so the
dressing continued, and she was all unsuspicious of
the scene enacting below, in the room where Anna met
her brother alone. She had not given Hugh her
name. She simply asked for Dr. Richards, and
conducting her into the parlor, hung with bridal decorations,
Hugh went for the doctor, amusing himself on the back
piazza with the sprightly Mug, who when asked if she
were not sorry Miss ’Lina was going off, had
naively answered:

“No-o—­sir, ’case she done jaw
so much, and pull my har. I tell you, she’s
a peeler. Is you glad she’s gwine?”

The doctor was not quite certain, but answered:
“Yes, very glad,” just as Hugh announced
“a lady who wished to see him.”

Mechanically the doctor took his way to the parlor,
while Hugh resumed his seat by the window, where for
the last hour he had watched for the coming of one
who had said, “I will be there.”

Half an hour later, had he looked into the parlor,
he would have seen a frightened, white-faced man crouching
at Anna Richards’ side and whispering to her
as if all life, all strength, all power to act for
himself were gone:

“What must I do? Tell me what to do.”

This was a puzzle to Anna, and she replied by asking
him another question. “Do you love ’Lina
Worthington?”

“I—­I—­no, I guess I don’t;
but she’s rich, and—­”

With a motion of disgust Anna cut him short, saying:
“Don’t make me despise you more than I
do. Until your lips confessed it, I had faith
that Lily was mistaken, that your marriage was honorable,
at least, even if you tired of it afterward.
You are worse than I suppose and now you speak of
money. What shall you do? Get up and not
sit whining at my feet like a puppy. Find Lily,
of course, and if she will stoop to listen a second
time to your suit, make her your wife, working to support
her until your hands are blistered, if need be.”

Page 180

Anna hardly knew herself in this phase of her character,
and her brother certainly did not.

“Don’t be hard on me, Anna,” he
said, looking at her in a kind of dogged, uncertain
way. “I’ll do what you say, only don’t
be hard. It’s come so sudden, that my head
is like a whirlpool. Lily, Willie, Willie.
The child I saw, you mean—­yes, the child—­I—­saw—­did
it say he—­was—­my—­boy?”

The words were thick and far apart. The head
drooped lower and lower, the color all left the lips,
and in spite of Anna’s vigorous shakes, or still
more vigorous hartshorn, overtaxed nature gave way,
and the doctor fainted at last. It was Anna’s
turn now to wonder what she should do, and she was
about summoning aid from some quarter when the door
opened suddenly, and Hugh ushered in a stranger—­the
convict, who had kept his word, and came to tell what
he knew of this complicated mystery, about which every
invited guest was talking, and which was keeping Ellen
Tiffton at home in a fever of excitement to know what
it all meant.

“There will be no bridal at Spring
Bank to-night, and if the invited
guests have any respect for the family,
they will remain quietly at
home, restraining their curiosity until
another day.

“ONE WHO HAS AUTHORITY”

Such were the contents of the ten different notes
left at ten different houses in the neighborhood of
Spring Bank that April day, by a strange horseman,
who carried them all himself and saw that they were
delivered.

The rider kept on his way, reining his panting steed
at last before the door of Spring Bank, and casting
about him anxious glances as he sprang up the steps.
There was nobody in sight but Hugh, who was expecting
him, and who, in reply to his inquiries for the doctor,
told where he was, and that a stranger was with him.
There was a low, hurried conversation between the
two, a partial revelation of the business which had
brought Sullivan to the house where were congregated
so many of his victims; and at its close Hugh’s
face was deadly white, for he knew now that he had
met Dr. Richards before, and that ’Lina could
not be his wife.

“The villain!” he muttered, involuntarily
clinching his fist as if to smite the dastard as he
followed Sullivan into the parlor, starting back when
he saw the prostrate form upon the floor, and heard
the lady say: “My brother, sir, has fainted.”

She was Anna, then; and Hugh guessed rightly why she
was there.

“Madam,” he began, but ere another word
was uttered, there fell upon his ear a shriek which
seemed to cleave the very air and made even the fainting
man move in his unconsciousness.

It was Mrs. Worthington, who, with hands outstretched
as if to keep him off, stood upon the threshold, gazing
in mute terror at the horror of her life, whispering
incoherently: “What is it, Hugh? How
came he here? Save me, save me from him!”

A look, half of sorrow, half of contempt, flitted
across the stranger’s face as he answered for
Hugh kindly, gently: “Is the very sight
of me so terrible to you, Eliza? I am only here
to set matters right. Here for our daughter’s
sake. Eliza, where is our child?”

Page 181

He had drawn nearer to her as he said this last, but
she intuitively turned to Hugh, who started suddenly,
growing white and faint as a suspicion of the truth
flashed upon him.

“Mother?” he began, interrogatively, winding
his arm about her, for she was the weaker of the two.

She knew what he would ask, and with her eye still
upon the man who fascinated her gaze, she answered,
sadly: “Forgive me, Hugh. He was—­my
husband; he is—­’Lina’s father,
not yours, Hugh—­oh! Heaven be praised,
not yours!” and she clung closely to her boy,
as if glad one child, at least, was not tainted with
the Murdock blood.

The convict smiled bitterly, and said to Hugh himself:

“Your mother is right. She was once my
wife, but the law set her free from the galling chain.
Will some one call Densie Densmore in? I may
need her testimony.”

No one volunteered to go for Densie Densmore, and
he was about repeating his request, when Alice came
tripping down the stairs, and pausing at the parlor
door, looked in.

“Anna!” she exclaimed, but uttered no
other sound for the terror of something terrible,
which kept her silent.

She stood looking from one to the other, until the
convict said:

“Young lady, will you call in Densie Densmore?
And stay, let the bride know. She is wanted,
too. I may as well confront all my victims at
once.”

Alice never knew what she said to Densie, or ’Lina
either. She was only conscious of following them
both down the stairs and into that dreadful room.
No one had said that she was wanted, but she could
not keep away. She must go, and she did, keeping
close to Densie, who took but one step, then with
a delirious laugh, she darted upon the stranger like
a tigress, and seizing his arm, said, between a shriek
and hiss:

“David Murdock, why are you here, a wolf in
the sheepfold? Tell me, where is my stolen daughter?”

For an instant the convict regarded the raving woman,
and then, as if in answer to her question, with a
half nod, his glance rested on ’Lina, who, too
much terrified to speak, had crept near to her affianced
husband, now returning to consciousness. Hugh
alone saw the nod, and it brought him at once to ’Lina,
where, with his arm upon her chair, he stood as if
he would protect her. Noble Hugh! ’Lina
never knew one-half how good and generous he was until
just as she was losing him.

“Densie,” the convict said, trying in
vain to shake off the hand which held him so firmly:
“Densie, be calm, and wait, as you see the others
doing. They all, save one, are interested in me.”

She alone could control that strange being, roused
now as she had not been roused in years. At the
sound of her voice, and the touch of her fingers on
her hand, Densie released her hold and suffered herself
to be led to a chair, while Alice knelt beside her.

Page 182

There was a moment’s hesitancy, and his face
flushed and paled alternately ere the convict could
summon courage to begin.

“Take this seat, sir, you need it,” Hugh
said, bringing him a chair and then resuming his watch
over ’Lina, who involuntarily leaned her throbbing
head upon his arm, and with the others listened to
that strange tale of sin.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE CONVICT’S STORY

“It is not an easy task to confess how bad one
has been,” the stranger said, “and once
no power could have tempted me to do it; but several
years of prison life have taught me some wholesome
lessons, and I am not the same man I was when, Densie
Densmore”—­and his glance turned toward
her—­“when I met you, and won your
love. Against you first I sinned. You are
my oldest victim, and it’s meet I should begin
with you.”

Her ferocity of manner all was gone, and the poor,
white-haired creature sat quietly where Alice had
put her, while the story proceeded:

“You know, Densie, but these do not, how I won
your love with promises of marriage, and then deserted
you just when you needed me most. I had found
new prey by that time—­was on the eve of
marriage with one who was too good for me. I
left you and married Mrs. Eliza Worthington. I—­”

The story was interrupted at this point by a cry from
’Lina, who moaned:

“No, no, oh no! He is not my father; is
he, Hugh? Tell me no. John, Dr. Richards,
pray look at me and say it’s all a dream, a dreadful
dream! Oh, Hugh!” and to the brother, scorned
so often, poor ’Lina turned for sympathy, while
the stranger continued:

“It would be useless for me to say now that
I loved her, Eliza, but I did, and when I heard soon
after my marriage that I was a father, I said:
’Densie will never rest now until she finds me,
and she must not come between me and Eliza,”
so I feigned an excuse and left my new wife for a
few weeks. Eliza, you remember I said I had business
in New York, and so I had. I went to Densie Densmore.
I professed sorrow for the past. I made her believe
me, and then laid a most diabolical plan. Money
will do anything, and I had more than people supposed.
I had a mother, too, at that time, a woman old and
infirm, and good, even if I was her son. To her
I went with a tale, half false, half true. There
was a little child, I said, a little girl, whose mother
was not my wife. I would have made her so, I
said, but she died at the child’s birth.
Would my mother take that baby for my sake? She
did not refuse, so I named a day when I would bring
it. ’Twas that day, Densie, when I took
you to the museum, and on pretense of a little business
I must transact at a house in Park Row, I left you
for an hour, but never went back again.”

“No, never back again—­never.
I waited so long, waited till I almost thought I heard
my baby cry, and then went home; but baby was gone.
Alice, do you hear me?—­baby was gone;”
and the poor, mumbling creature, rocking to and fro,
buried her bony fingers in Alice’s fair hair.

Page 183

“Poor Densie! poor auntie!” was all Alice
said, as she regarded with horror the man, who went
on:

“Yes, baby was gone—­gone to my mother’s,
in a part of the city where there was no probability
of its being found and I was gone, too. You are
shocked, fair maiden, and well you may be,” the
convict said.

“In course of time there was a daughter born
to me and to Eliza; a sweet little, brown-haired,
brown-eyed girl, whom we named Adaline.”

Instinctively every one in that room glanced at the
black eyes and hair of ’Lina, marveling at the
change.

“I loved this little girl, as it was natural
I should, more than I loved the other, whose mother
was a servant. Besides that, she was not so deeply
branded as the other; see—­” and pushing
back the thick locks from his forehead, he disclosed
his birthmark, while ’Lina suddenly put her
hand where she knew there was another like it.

“At last there came a separation. Eliza
would not live with me longer and I went away, but
pined so for my child that I contrived to steal her,
and carried her to my mother, where was the other one.
’Twas there you tracked me, Densie. You
came one day, enacting a fearful scene, and frightening
my children until they fled in terror and hid away
from your sight.”

“I remember, I remember now. That’s
where I heard the name,” ’Lina said, while
the convict continued:

“I said you were a mad woman. I made mother
believe it; but she never recovered from the shock,
and six weeks after your visit, I was alone with my
two girls, Densie and Adaline. I could not attend
to them both, and so I sent one to Eliza and kept
the other myself, hiring a housekeeper, and to prevent
being dogged by Densie again, I passed as Mr. Monroe
Gordon, guardian to the little child whom I loved so
much.”

“That was Adah,” fell in the whisper from
the doctor’s lips, but caught the ear of no
one.

All were too intent upon the story, which proceeded:

“She grew, and grew in beauty, my fair, lovely
child, and I was wondrously proud of her, giving her
every advantage in my power. I sent her to the
best of schools, and even looked forward to the day
when she should take the position she was so well
fitted to fill. After she was grown to girlhood
we boarded, she as the ward, I as the guardian still,
and then one unlucky day I stumbled upon you, Dr. John,
but not until you had first stumbled upon my daughter,
and been charmed with her beauty, passing yourself
as some one else—­as George Hastings, I
believe—­lest your fashionable associates
should know how the aristocratic Dr. Richards was
in love with a poor, unknown orphan, boarding up two
flights of stairs.”

“Who is he talking about, Hugh? Does he
mean me? My head throbs so, I don’t quite
understand,” ’Lina said, piteously, while
Hugh held the poor aching head against his bosom,
crushing the orange blossoms, and whispering softly:

Page 184

“He means Adah.”

“Yes, Adah,” the convict rejoined.
“John Richards fancied Adah Gordon, as she was
called, but loved his pride and position more.
I’ll do you justice, though, young man, I believe
at one time you really and truly loved my child, and
but for your mother’s letters might have married
her honorably. But you were afraid of that mother.
Your pride was stronger than your love; and as I was
determined that you should have my daughter, I proposed
a mock marriage.”

“Monster! You, her father, planned that
fiendish act!” and Alice’s blue eyes flashed
indignantly upon him, while Hugh, forgetting that the
idea was not new to him, walked up before the “monster,”
as if to lay him at his feet.

“Listen, while I explain, and you will see the
monster had an object,” returned the stranger,
speaking to Alice, instead of Hugh. “There
were several reasons why I wished Adah to marry Dr.
Richards, and as one of them concerns this scar upon
my forehead, I will tell you here its history.
You, madam,” addressing himself to Anna, “have
probably heard how your greatgrandfather died.”

“It happened almost a century of years ago,
when there was not the difference of position between
the proud Richards line and the humble Murdocks that
there is now. Your greatgrandfather and mine were
friends, boon companions, but one fatal night, when
more wine than usual had been drunk, there arose a
fearful quarrel between the two, and with a knife
snatched from a sideboard standing near, Murdock gave
his comrade a blow which resulted in his death.
Sobered at once, and nearly beside himself with terror,
he rushed frantically to the chamber of his sleeping
wife, and laying his blood-wet hands upon her brow,
screamed for her to rise, which she did immediately,
nearly fainting, it is said, when by the light of
the lamp her husband bore, she saw the bloody print
upon her forehead. Three months afterward my
grandfather was born, and over his left temple was
the hated mark which has clung to us ever since, and
which a noted clairvoyant predicted would never disappear
until the feudal parties came together, and a Murdock
wedding with a Richards. The offspring of such
union would be without taint or blemish, he said, and
I am told, sir, your boy is fair as alabaster.”

Dr. Richards, to whom this appeal was made, only stared
blankly at him, like one who hears in a dream, but
’Lina, catching at everything pertaining to
the doctor, said, quickly:

“His boy! Where is his boy? Oh, what
does it all mean?”

“Poor girl!” and the convict spoke sorrowfully.
“I did not think she would take it so hard,
but the worst is not yet told, and I must hasten.
I ingratiated myself at once into John Richards’
good graces and when I knew it would answer, I suggested
a mock marriage. First, however, I would know
something definite of his family as they were then,
and so, as a Mr. Morris, who wished to purchase a

Page 185

country seat, I went to Snowdon, and after some inquiries
in the village, forced my way to Terrace Hill.
The lady listening to me was the only one I saw, and
I felt sure she at least would be kind to Adah.
On my return to New York, I urged the marriage more
pertinaciously than at first, saying, by way of excusing
myself, that as I was only Adah’s guardian, I
could not, of course, feel toward her as a near relative
would feel—­that as I had already expended
large sums of money on her, I was getting tired of
it, and would be glad to be released, hinting, by
way of smoothing the fiendish proposition, my belief
that, from constant association, he would come to
love her so much that at last he would really and truly
make her his wife. He did hesitate—­he
did seem shocked, and if I remember rightly, called
me a brute, an unnatural guardian, and all that; but
little by little I gained ground, until at last he
consented, and I hurried the matter at once, lest
he should repent.

“I had an acquaintance, I said, who lived a
few miles from the city—­a man who, for
money, would do anything, and who, as a feigned justice
of the peace, would go through with the ceremony,
and ever after keep his own counsel. I wonder
the doctor did not make some inquiries concerning
this so-called justice, but I think I am right in saying
that he is not remarkably clear-headed, and this weakness
saved me much trouble, and after a long time I arranged
the matter with my friend, who was a lawful justice,
staying with his brother, at that time absent in Europe.
This being done, I decided upon Hugh Worthington for
a witness, as being the person, of all the world,
who should be present at Adah’s bridal.
He had recently come to New York. I had accidentally
made his acquaintance, acquiring so strong an influence
over him that I could almost mold him to my will.
I did not tell him what I wanted until I had tempted
him with drugged wine, and he did not realize what
he was doing. He knew enough, however, to sign
his name and to salute the bride, who really was a
bride, as lawful a one as any who ever turned from
the altar where she had registered her vows.”

“Oh, joy, joy!” and Alice sprang at once
to her feet, and hastening to the doctor’s side,
said to him, authoritatively:

“You hear, you understand, Adah is your wife,
your very own, and you must go back to her at once.
She’s in your own home as Rose Markham.
She went from here, Adah Hastings, whose husband’s
name was George. You do understand me?”
and Alice grew very earnest as the doctor failed to
rouse up, as she thought he ought to do.

Appealing next to Anna, she continued:

“Pray, make him comprehend that his wife is
at Terrace Hill.”

Very gently Anna answered:

“She was there, but she has gone. He knows
it; I came to tell him, but she fled immediately after
recognizing my brother, and left a letter revealing
the whole.”

It had come to ’Lina by this time that Dr. Richards
could never be her husband, and with a bitter cry,
she covered her face with her hands, and went shivering
to the corner where Mrs. Worthington sat, as if a
mother’s sympathy were needed now, and coveted
as it had never been before.

Page 186

“Oh, mother,” she sobbed, laying her head
in Mrs. Worthington’s lap, “I wish I had
never been born.”

Sadly her wail of disappointment rang through the
room, and then the convict went on with his interrupted
narrative.

“When the marriage was over, Mr. Hastings took
his wife to another part of the city, hiding her from
his fashionable associates, staying with her most
of the time, and appearing to love her so much that
I thought it would not be long before I should venture
to tell him the truth. I went South on a little
business which a companion and myself had planned
together—­the very laudable business of stealing
negroes from one State and selling them in another.
Some of you know that I was caught in my traffic,
and that the negro stealer Sullivan, was safely lodged
in prison, from which he was released but two days
since. Fearing there might be some mistake, I
wrote from my prison home to Adah herself, but suppose
it did not reach New York till after she had left it.
My poor, dear little girl, thoughts of her have helped
to make me a better man than I ever was before.
I am not perfect now, but I certainly am not as hard,
as wicked, or bad as when I first wore the felon’s
dress.”

A casual observer would have said that Densie Densmore
had heard less of that strange story than any one
else, but her hearing faculties had been sharpened,
and not a word was missed by her—­not a link
lost in the entire narrative, and when the narrator
expressed his love for his daughter, she darted upon
him again, shrieking wildly:

“And that child whom you loved was the baby
you stole, and I shall see her again—­shall
hear that blessed name of mother from her own sweet
lips.”

A little apart from the others, his eyes fixed earnestly
upon the convict, stood Hugh. His mind, too,
had gathered in every fact, but he had reached a widely
different conclusion from what poor Densie had.

“Answer her,” he said, gravely, as the
convict did not reply. “Tell her if Adah
be her child, or—­’Lina—­which?”

Had a clap of thunder cleft the air around her, ’Lina
could not have started up sooner than she did.
The convict took his eyes away from her, pitying her
so much, while Densie’s bony hand was raised
as if to thrust her off, and Densie’s voice
exclaimed: “Not this, not this. She
despises me, a white nigger. I will not be her
mother. The other one—­Densie, I named
her—­she is mine—­”

The convict shook his head. “No, Densie,
not Adah, I kept her, my lawful child, and sent the
other back. It was a bold move, and I wonder it
was not questioned, but Adaline’s eyes were
not so black then as they are now, and though six
months older than the other, she was small for her
age, and cannot now be so tall as Adah. The mark,
too, must have strengthened the deception, as I knew
it would, and eighteen months sometimes changes a
child materially; so Eliza took it for granted that
the girl she received as Adaline, and whose real name
was Densie, was her own; but Adah Hastings is her
daughter and Hugh’s half-sister, while this
young woman is—­the child of myself and Densie
Densmore!”

Page 187

One mother had claimed her own, but alas, the fond
cry of welcome to sweet Adah Hastings was a death
knell to ’Lina, for it seemed to shut her out
of that gentle woman’s heart. There was
no place for her, and in her terrible desolation she
stood alone, her eyes wandering wistfully from one
to another, but turning very quickly when they fell
on the white-haired Densie, her mother. She would
not have it so; she could not own the woman she had
affected to despise, that servant for her mother,
that villain for her father, and worse—­oh,
infinitely worse than all—­she had no right
to be born! A child of sin and shame, disgraced,
disowned, forsaken. It was a terrible blow, and
the proud girl staggered beneath it.

“Will no one speak to me?” she said, at
last; “no one break this dreadful silence?
Has everybody forsaken me? Do you all loathe and
hate the offspring of such parents? Won’t
somebody pity and care for me?”

“Yes, ’Lina,” and Hugh—­the
one from whom she had the least right to expect pity—­Hugh
came to her side; and winding his arm around her,
said, with a choking voice: “I will not
forsake you, ’Lina; I will care for you the
same as ever, and so long as I have a home you shall
have one, too.”

“Oh, Hugh, I don’t deserve this from you!”
was ’Lina’s faint response, as she laid
her head upon his bosom, whispering: “Take
me away—­from them all—­upstairs—­on
the bed I am so sick, and my head is bursting open!”

Hugh was strong as a young giant, and lifting gently
the yielding form, he bore it from the room—­the
bridal room, which she would never enter again, until
he brought her back—­and laid her softly
down beneath the windows, dropping tears upon her
white, still face, and whispering:

“Poor ’Lina!”

As Hugh passed out with his burden in his arms, the
bewildered company seemed to rally; but the convict
was the first to act. Turning to Mrs. Worthington
he said:

“Eliza, I am here to-night for my children’s
sake; and now that I have done what I came to do,
I shall leave you, only asking that you continue to
be a mother to the poor girl who is really the only
sufferer. The rest have cause for joy; you in
particular,” turning to the doctor, who suddenly
seemed to break the spell which had bound him, and
springing to his feet, exclaimed:

“Yes, Lily shall he found, Lily shall be found;
but I must see my boy first. Anna, can’t
we go now, to-night?”

That was impossible, Alice said; and as hers was the
only clear head in the household, she set herself
at once to plan for everybody. To the convict
and the doctor she paid no heed; but the tired Anna
was conducted at once to her own room, and made to
take the rest she so much needed. Densie too
was cared for kindly, soothingly; for the poor old
woman was nearly crushed with all she had heard; and
Alice, as she left her upon the bed, heard her muttering
deliriously to herself:

Page 188

“She wouldn’t let her own mother eat with
her. She compared me to a white nigger; and can
I receive her now? No, no; and she don’t
wish it. Yet I pitied her when her heart snapped
to pieces there in the middle of the room; poor girl,
poor girl!”

When Alice returned again to the parlor, the convict
had gone. There had been a short consultation
between himself and the doctor, an engagement to meet
in Cincinnati to arrange their plan of search; and
then he had turned again to his once wife, still sitting
in her corner, motionless, white, and paralyzed with
nervous terror.

“You need not fear me, Eliza,” he said,
kindly, “I shall probably never trouble you
again; and though you have no cause to believe my word,
I tell you solemnly that I will never rest until I
have found our daughter, and sent her back to you.
Be kind to Densie Densmore; she was more sinned against
than sinning. Good-by, Eliza, good-by.”

He did not offer her his hand; he knew she would not
touch it; but with one farewell look of contrition
and regret, he left her, and mounting the horse which
had brought him there, he dashed away from Spring Bank,
just as Colonel Tiffton reined up to the gate.

Nell would give him no peace until he went over to
see what it all meant and if there really was to be
no wedding. It was Alice who met him in the hall,
explaining to him as much as she thought necessary,
and asking him, on his return, to wait a little by
the field gate, and turn back any other guest who
might be on the road.

The colonel promised compliance with her request,
and thus were kept away two carriage loads of people
whose curiosity had prompted them to disregard the
contents of the note brought to them so mysteriously.

Spring Bank was not honored with wedding guests that
night; and when the clock struck eight, the appointed
hour for the bridal, only the bridegroom sat in the
dreary parlor, his head bent down upon the sofa arm,
and his chest heaving with the sobs he could not repress
as he thought of all poor Lily had suffered since
he left her so cruelly. Hugh had told him what
he did not understand before. He had come into
the room for his mother, whom ’Lina was pleading
to see; and after leading her to the chamber of the
half-delirious girl, he had returned to the doctor,
and related to him all he knew of Adah, dwelling long
upon her gentleness and beauty, which had won from
him a brother’s love, even though he knew not
she was his Sister.

“I was a wretch, a villain!” the doctor
groaned. Then looking wistfully at Hugh, he said:
“Do you think she loves me still? Listen
to what she says in her farewell to Anna,” and
with faltering voice, he read: “That killed
the love and now, if I could, I would not be his except
for Willie’s sake.’ Do you think
she meant it?”

“I have no doubt of it, sir. How could
her love outlive everything? Curses and blows
might not have killed it, but when you thought to ruin
her good name, to deny your child, she would be less
than woman could she forgive. Why, I hate and
despise you myself for the wrong you have done my
sister,” and Hugh’s tall form seemed to
take on an increased height as he stood, gazing down
on one who could not meet his eye, but cowered and
hid his face.

Page 189

It was the first time Hugh had called Adah “my
sister,” and it seemed to fill every nook and
corner of his great heart with unutterable love for
the absent girl. “Sister, sister,”
he kept repeating to himself, and as he did so, his
resentful indignation grew toward the man who had so
cruelly deceived her, until at last he abruptly left
the room, lest his hot temper should get the mastery,
and he knock down his dastardly brother-in-law, as
he greatly wished to do.

It was a sad house at Spring Bank that night, and
only the negroes were capable of any enjoyment.
Terrified at first at what by dint of listening they
saw and heard, they assembled in the kitchen, and
together rehearsed the strange story, wondering if
none of the tempting supper prepared with so much
care would be touched by the whites. If not,
they, of course, had the next best right, and when
about midnight Mrs. Worthington passed hurriedly through
the dining-room, the table gave evidence that somebody
had partaken of the marriage feast, and not very sparingly
either. But she did not care, her thoughts were
divided between the distant Adah, her daughter—­her
own—­the little brown-eyed child she had
been so proud of years ago, and the moaning, wretched
girl upstairs, ’Lina, tossing distractedly from
side to side; now holding her throbbing head, and
now thrusting out her hot, dry hands, as if to keep
off some fancied form, whose hair, she said, was white
as snow, and who claimed to be her mother.

The shock had been a terrible one to ’Lina—­terrible
in more senses than one. She did love Dr. Richards;
and the losing him was enough of itself to drive her
mad; but worse even than this, and far more humiliating
to her pride, was the discovery of her parentage,
the knowing that a convict was her father, a common
servant her mother, and that no marriage tie had hallowed
her birth.

“Oh, I can’t bear it!” she cried.
“I can’t. I wish I might die!
Will nobody kill me? Hugh, you will, I know!”

But Hugh was away for the family physician, for he
would not trust a gossiping servant to do the errand.
Once before that doctor had stood by ’Lina’s
bedside, and felt her feverish pulse, but his face
then was not as anxious as now. He did not speak
of danger, but Hugh, who watched him narrowly, read
it in his face, and following him down the stairs,
asked to be told the truth.

“She is going to be very sick. She may
get well, but I have little to hope from symptoms
like hers.”

That was the doctor’s reply, and with a sigh
Hugh went back to the sick girl, who had given him
little else than sarcasm and scorn.

CHAPTER XL

POOR ’LINA

Drearily the morning dawned, but there were no bridal
slumbers to be broken, no bridal farewells said.
There were indeed good-byes to be spoken, for Anna
was impatient to be gone. But for Adah, who must
be found, and Willie, who must be cared for, and Charlie,
who was waiting for her, she would have tarried longer,
and helped to nurse the girl whom she pitied so much.
But even Alice said she had better go, and so at an
early hour she was ready to leave the house she had
entered under so unpleasant circumstances.

Page 190

“I would like to see ’Lina,” she
said to Alice, who carried the request to the sick
room.

But ’Lina refused. “I can’t,”
she said; “she hates, she despises me, and she
has reason. Tell her I was not worthy to be her
sister; tell her anything you like; but the doctor—­oh,
Alice, do you think he’ll come, just for a minute,
before he goes?”

It was not a pleasant thing for the doctor to meet
’Lina now face to face, for of course she wished
to reproach him for his treachery. But she did
not—­she thought only of herself; and when
at last, urged on by Anna and Alice, he entered into
her presence, she only offered him her hand at first,
without a single word. He was shocked to find
her so sick, for a few hours had worked a marvelous
change in her, and he shrank from the bright eyes
fixed so eagerly on his face.

“Oh Dr. Richards,” she began at last,
“if I loved you less it would not be so hard
to tell you what I must. I did love you, bad as
I am, but I meant to deceive you. It was for
me that Adah kept silence at Terrace Hill. Adah,
I almost hate her for having crossed my path.”

There was a fearfully vindictive gleam in the bright
eyes now, and the doctor shudderingly looked away,
while ’Lina, with a soft tone, continued:
“You believed me rich, and whether you loved
me afterward or not, you sought me first for my money.
I kept up the delusion, for in no other way could
I have won you. Dr. Richards, if I die, as perhaps
I may, I shall have one less sin for which to atone,
if I confess to you that instead of the heiress you
imagined me to be, I had scarcely money enough to
pay my board at that hotel. Hugh, who himself
is poor, furnished what means I had, and most of my
jewelry was borrowed. Do you hear that?
Do you know what you have escaped?”

She almost shrieked at the last.

“Go,” she continued, “find your
Adah. It’s nothing but Adah now. I
see her name in everything. Hugh thinks of nothing
else, and why should he? She’s his sister,
and I—­oh! I’m nobody but a beggarly
servant’s brat. I wish I was dead!
I wish I was dead! and I will be pretty soon.”

This was their parting, and the doctor left her room
a soberer, sadder man than he had entered it.
Half an hour later, and he, with Anna, was fast nearing
Versailles, where they were joined by Mr. Millbrook,
and together the three started on their homeward route.

Rapidly the tidings flew, told in a thousand different
ways, and the neighborhood was all on fire with the
strange gossip. But little cared they at Spring
Bank for the storm outside, so fierce a one was beating
at their doors, that even the fall of Sumter failed
to elicit more than a casual remark from Hugh, who
read without the slightest emotion the President’s
call for seventy-five thousand men. Tenderer than
a brother was Hugh to the sick girl upstairs, staying
by her so patiently that none save Alice ever guessed
how he longed to be free and join in the search for
Adah. To her it had been revealed by a few words
accidentally overheard. “Oh, Adah, sister,
I know that I could find you, but my duty is here.”

Page 191

This was what he said, and Alice felt her heart throb
with increased respect for the unselfish man, who
gave no other token of his impatience to be gone,
but stayed home hour after hour in that close, feverish
room, ministering to all of ’Lina’s fancies,
and treating her as if no word of disagreement had
ever passed between them. Night after night,
day after day, ’Lina grew worse, until at last,
there was no hope, and the council of physicians summoned
to her side said that she would die. Then Densie
softened again, but did not go near the dying one.
She could not be sent away a second time, so she stayed
in her own room, which witnessed many a scene of agonizing
prayer, for the poor girl passing so surely to another
world.

“God save her at the last. God let her
into heaven,” was the burden of shattered Densie’s
prayer, while Alice’s was much like it, and Hugh,
too, more than once bowed his head upon the burning
hands he held, and asked that space might be given
her for repentance, shuddering as he recalled the
time when, like her, he lay at death’s door,
unprepared to enter in. Was he prepared now?
Had he made a proper use of life and health restored?
Alas! that the answer conscience forced upon him should
have wrung out so sharp a groan. “But I
will be,” he said, and laying his own face by
’Lina’s, he promised that if God would
bring her reason back, so they could tell her of the
untried world her feet were nearing, he would henceforth
be a better man, and try to serve the God who heard
and answered that earnest prayer.

It was many days ere the fever abated, but there came
a morning in early May when the eyes were not so fearfully
bright as they had been, while the wild ravings were
hushed, and ’Lina lay quietly upon her pillow.

“Do you know me?” Alice asked, bending
gently over her, while Hugh, from the other side of
the bed, leaned eagerly forward for the reply.

“Yes, Alice, but where am I? This is not
New York—­not my room. Have I—­am
I sick, very sick?” and ’Lina’s eyes
took a terrified expression as she read the truth
in Alice’s face. “I am not going to
die, am I?” she continued, casting upon Alice
a look which would have wrung out the truth, even
if Alice had been disposed to withhold it, which she
was not.

“You are very sick,” she answered, “and
though we hope for the best, the doctor does not encourage
us much. Are you willing to die, ’Lina?”

“Willing? No!” or the expression
of her face, as she turned it to the wall, and motioned
them to leave her.

For two days after that she neither spoke nor gave
other token of interest in anything passing around
her, but at the expiration of that time, as Alice
sat by her, she suddenly exclaimed:

Page 192

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those
who trespass against us. I wish He had said that
some other way, for if that means we cannot be forgiven
until we forgive everybody, there’s no hope for
me, for I cannot, I will not forgive Densie Densmore
for being my mother, neither will I forgive Adah Hastings
for having crossed my path. If she had never
seen the doctor I should have been his wife, and never
have known who or what I was. I hate them both,
Densie and Adah, so you need not pray for me.
I heard you last night, and even Hugh has taken it
up, but it’s no use. I can’t forgive.”

’Lina was very much excited—­so much
indeed, that Alice could not talk with her then; and
for days this was the burden of her remarks. She
could not forgive Densie and Adah, and until she did,
there was no use for her or any one else to pray.
But the prayers she could not say for herself were
said for her by others, while Alice omitted no proper
occasion for talking with her personally on the subject
she felt to be all-important. Nor were these
efforts without their effect; the bitter tone when
speaking of Densie ceased at last, and Alice was one
day surprised at ’Lina’s asking to see
her, together with Mrs. Worthington. Timidly,
Densie approached the bed from which she had once been
so angrily dismissed. But there was nothing to
fear now from the white, wasted girl, whose large
eyes fastened themselves a moment on the wrinkled
face; then with a shudder, closed tightly, while the
lip quivered with a grieved, suffering expression.
She did not say to poor old Densie that she acknowledged
her as a mother, or that she felt for her the slightest
thrill of love. She was through with deception;
and when, at last, she spoke to the anxiously waiting
woman, it was only to say:

“I wanted to tell you that I have forgiven you;
but I cannot call you mother. You must not expect
it. I know no mother but this one,” and
the white hand reached itself toward Mrs. Worthington,
who took it unhesitatingly and held it between her
own, while ’Lina continued: “I’ve
given you little cause to love me, and I know how glad
you must be that another, and not I, is your real
daughter. I did not know what made me so bad,
but I understand it now. I saw myself so plainly
in that man’s eyes; it was his nature in me
which made me so hateful to Hugh. Oh, Hugh! the
memory of what I’ve been to him is the hardest
part of all,” and covering her face with the
sheet, ’Lina wept bitterly; while Hugh, who
was standing behind her, laid his warm hand on her
head, smoothing her hair caressingly, as he said:

“Never mind that, ’Lina; I, too, was bad
to you. If ’Lina can forgive me, I surely
can forgive ’Lina.”

There was the sound of convulsive sobbing; and then,
uncovering her face, ’Lina raised herself up,
and laying her hand on Hugh’s bosom, answered
through her tears:

“I wish I had always felt as I do now.
Hugh, you don’t know how bad I’ve been.
Why, I used to be ashamed to call you brother, if any
fine people were near.”

Page 193

There was a sparkle of indignation in Alice’s
blue eyes.

“You have no cause to be ashamed of Hugh,”
she said, quickly, the tone of her voice coming like
a revelation to ’Lina, who scanned her face
eagerly, and then, turning, looked curiously up to
Hugh.

“I’m glad, I’m glad,” she
whispered, “for I know now you are worthy even
of her.”

“You are mistaken, ’Lina,” Hugh
said, huskily, while ’Lina continued; “And,
Hugh, I must tell you more, how bad I’ve been.
You remember the money you sent to Adah last summer
in mother’s letter. I kept the whole.
I burned the letter, and mother never saw it.
I bought jewelry with Adah’s money. I did
so many things, I—­I—­it goes from
me now. I can’t remember all. Oh,
must I confess the whole, everything, before I can
say, ‘Forgive us our trespasses?’”

“No, ’Lina. Unless you can repair
some wrong, you are not bound to tell every little
thing. Confession is due to God alone,”
Alice whispered to the agitated girl, who looked bewildered,
as she answered back: “But God knows all
now, and you do not; besides, I can’t feel sorry
toward Him as I do toward others. I try and try,
but the feeling is not there—­the sorry
feeling, I mean, as sorry as I want to feel.”

“God, who knows our feebleness, accepts our
purposes to do better, and gives us strength to carry
them out,” Alice whispered, again bending over
’Lina, on whose pallid, distressed face a ray
of hope for a moment shone.

“I have good purposes,” she murmured;
“but I can’t, I can’t. I don’t
know as they are real; maybe, if I get well, they would
not last, and it’s all so dark, so desolate—­nothing
to make life desirable—­no home, no name,
no friends—­and death is so terrible.
Oh, Hugh, Hugh! don’t let me go. You are
strong; you can hold me back, even from Death himself;
and I can be good to you; I can feel on that point,
and I tell you truly that, standing as I am with the
world behind and death before, I see nothing to make
life desirable, but you, Hugh, my noble, my abused
brother. To make you love me, as I hope I might,
is worth living for. You would stand by me, Hugh—­you,
if no one else, and I wish I could tell you how fast
the great throbs of love keep coming to my heart.
Dear Hugh, Hugh, Brother Hugh, don’t let me
die—­hold me fast.”

With an icy shiver, she clung closer to Hugh, as if
he could indeed do battle with the king of terror
stealing slowly into that room.

“Do you forgive and love everybody?” Alice
asked, sighing as she saw the bitter expression flash
for an instant over the pinched features, while the
white lips answered: “Not Adah, no, not
Adah.”

Alice could not pray after that, not aloud at least,
and a deep silence fell upon the group assembled around
the deathbed. ’Lina slept at last, slept
quietly on Hugh’s strong arm, and gradually the
hard expression on the face relaxed, giving way to
one of quiet peace, and Densie, watching her anxiously,
whispered beneath her breath: “See, the
Murdock is all gone, and her face is like a baby’s
face. Maybe she would call me mother now.”

Page 194

Poor Densie! Eagerly she waited for the close
of that long sleep, her eye the first to note that
it was ended, and ’Lina awake again. Still
the silence remained unbroken, while ’Lina seemed
lost to all else save the thoughts burning at her
breast—­thoughts which brought a quiver to
her lips, and forced out upon her brow great drops
of sweat, which Densie wiped away, unnoticed, it may
be, or at least unrebuked. The noonday sun of
May was shining broadly into the room, but to ’Lina
it was night, and she said to Alice, now kneeling
at her side: “It’s growing dark;
they’ll light the street lamps pretty soon, and
the band will play in the yard, but I shall not hear
them. New York and Saratoga are a great ways
off, and so is Terrace Hill. Tell him I meant
to deceive him, but I did love him. Tell Adah
I do forgive her, and I would like to see her, for
she is my half-sister. The bitter is all gone.
I am in charity with everybody, everybody. May
I say ‘Our Father’ now? It goes and
comes, goes and comes, forgive our trespasses, my trespasses;
how is it, Hugh? Say it with me once, and you,
too, mother.”

She did not look toward Densie, but her hand fell
off that way, and Densie, with a low cry began with
Hugh the soothing prayer in which ’Lina joined
feebly, throwing in ejaculatory sentences of her own.

It was the last word which ever passed ’Lina’s
lips, “Forgive, forgive,” and Hugh, with
his ear close to the lips, heard the faint murmur even
after the hands had fallen from his neck where in the
last struggle they had been clasped, and after the
look which comes but once to all had settled on her
face. That was the last of ’Lina, with that
cry for pardon she passed away, and though it was
but a deathbed repentance, and she, the departed,
had much need for pardon, Alice and the half-acknowledged
mother clung to it as to a ray of hope, knowing how
tender and full of compassion was the blessed Savior,
even to those who turn not to Him until the river
of death is bearing them away. Very gently Hugh
laid the dead girl back upon the pillow, and leaving
one kiss on her white forehead, hurried away to his
own room, where, unseen to mortal eye, he could ask
for knowledge to give himself aright to the God who
had come so near to them.

There were no noisy outbursts among the negroes when
told their young mistress was dead, for ’Lina
had not been greatly loved. The sight of Alice’s
swollen eyes and tear-stained face affected Mug, it
is true, but even she could not cry until she had
coaxed old Uncle Sam to repeat to her, for the twentieth
time, the story of Bethlehem’s little children
slain, by order of the cruel Herod. This story,
told in old Sam’s peculiar way, had the desired
effect, and the tears which refused to start even
at the sight of ’Lina dead, flowed freely for
the little ones over whom Rachel wept, refusing to
be comforted.

Page 195

“I can cry dreffully now, Miss Alice, I’se
sorry, Miss ’Lina is dead, very sorry.
She never can come back any more, can she?” Mug
sobbed, running up to Alice, and hiding her face in
her dress.

And this was about as real as any grief expressed
by the blacks for ’Lina. Poor ’Lina,
she had taken no pains to win affection while she was
living, and she could not expect to be missed much
when she was gone. Hugh mourned for her the most,
more even than his mother or Densie Densmore—­the
latter of whom seemed crazier than ever, shutting herself
entirely in her room, and refusing to be present at
the funeral. ’Lina had been ashamed of
her, she said, and she would not disgrace her by claiming
relationship now that she was dead, so with eyes whose
blackness was dimmed by tears, she watched from her
window the procession moving from the yard, across
the fields, and out to the hillside, where the Spring
Bank dead were buried, and where on the last day of
blooming, beautiful May, they laid ’Lina to rest,
forgetting all her faults, and speaking only kindly
words of her as they went slowly back to the house,
from which she had gone forever.

CHAPTER XLI

TIDINGS

A few days after ’Lina’s burial, there
came three letters to Spring Bank, one to Mrs. Worthington
from Murdock, as he now chose to be called, saying
that though he had looked, and was still looking everywhere
for the missing Adah, he could only trace her, and
that but vaguely, to the Greenbush depot, where he
lost sight of her entirely, no one after that having
seen a person bearing the least resemblance to her.
After a consultation with the doctor, he had advertised
for her, and he inclosed a copy of the advertisement,
as it appeared in the different papers of Boston,
Albany, and New York.

“If A——­ H——­
will let her whereabouts be known to her friends, she
will hear of something to her advantage.”

This was the purport of Murdock’s letter, if
we except a kind of inquiry after ’Lina, of
whose death he had not heard.

The second, for Alice, was from Anna Richards, who
was also ignorant as yet of ’Lina’s decease.
After inquiring kindly for the unfortunate girl, she
wrote:

“I have great hopes of my erring brother, now
that I know how his whole heart goes toward his beautiful
boy, our darling Willie. I wish poor, dear Lily
could have seen him when, on his arrival at Terrace
Hill, he not only bent over, but knelt by the crib
of his sleeping child, waking him at once, and hugging
him to his bosom, while his tears dropped like rain.
I am sure she would have chosen to be his wife, for
her own sake as well as Willie’s.

“You know how proud my mother and sisters are,
and it would surprise you, as it does me, to see them
pet, and spoil, and fondle Willie, who rules the entire
household, mother even allowing him to bring wheelbarrow,
drum, and trumpet into the parlor, declaring that she
likes the noise, as it stirs up her blood. Willie
has made a vast change in our once quiet home, and
I fear I shall meet with much opposition when I take
him away, as I expect to do next month, for Lily gave
him to me, and brother John has said that I may have
him until the mother is found, while Charlie is perfectly
willing; and thus, you see, my cup of joy is full.

Page 196

“Brother is away now, hunting for Adah, and
I am wicked enough not to miss him, so busy am I in
the few preparations needed by the wife of a poor
missionary.”

Then, in a postscript. Anna added: “I
forgot to tell you that Charlie and I are to be married
some time in July, that the Presbyterian Society of
Snowdon has given him a call to be their pastor, that
he has accepted, and what is best of all, has actually
rented your old home for us to live in. I don’t
know how it will seem to stop on Sundays at the meeting
house instead of keeping on to our dear, old St. Luke’s.
I love the service dearly, but I love my Charlie more,
notwithstanding that he calls me his little heretic,
and accuses me of proselytizing intentions towards
himself. I have never confessed it before, but,
seriously, I have strong hopes of seeing him yet in
surplice and gown; but till that time comes, I shall
be a real good Presbyterian, or orthodox, as they
are called here in Massachusetts.

“Perhaps you may have heard that mother was
once much opposed to Charlie. I must say, however,
that she has done well at the last, for when I told
her I had found him, and that we were to be married,
she said she was glad on the whole, as it relieved
her of a load, and she hoped I would be happy.”

Anna did not explain to Alice that the load of which
her mother was relieved was mostly Charlie’s
hidden letters, given up with a full confession of
the pains taken to conceal them, and a frank acknowledgment
of wrong to Anna, who, as her letter indicated, was
far too happy to be angry for a single moment.
With a smile, Alice finished the childlike letter,
so much like Anna. Then feeling that Hugh would
be glad to hear from Willie, she went in quest of
him, finding him at the end of the long piazza, where
he sat gazing vacantly at the open letter in his hand—­Irving
Stanley’s letter, which he passed at once to
Alice in exchange for Anna’s given to him.

Glancing at the name at the bottom of the page, Alice
blushed painfully, feeling rather than seeing that
Hugh was watching her, and guessing of what he was
thinking. Irving did not know of ’Lina’s
death. From Dr. Richards, whom he had accidentally
met on Broadway, he had heard of her sudden illness,
and apparently accepted that as the reason why the
marriage was not consummated. Intuitively, however,
he felt that there must be something behind, but he
was far too well-bred to ask any idle questions, and
in his letter he merely inquired after ’Lina,
as after any sick friend, playfully hoping that for
the sake of the doctor, who looked very blue, she
would soon recover and make him the happiest man alive.
Then followed some allusions to the relationship existing
between himself and Hugh, with regrets that more had
not been made of it, and then he said that having
decided to accompany his sister and Mrs. Ellsworth
on her tour to Europe, whither she would go the latter
part of July, and having nothing in particular to
occupy him in the interim, he would, with Hugh’s
permission, spend a few days at Spring Bank. He
did not say he was coming to see Alice Johnson, but
Hugh understood it just the same, feeling confident
that his sole object in visiting Kentucky was to take
Alice back with him, and carry her off to Europe.

Page 197

Some such idea flitted across Alice’s mind as
she read that letter, and for a single instant her
eyes sparkled with delight at the thought of wandering
over Europe in company with Mrs. Ellsworth and Irving
Stanley; but when she looked at Hugh, the bright vision
faded, and with it all desire to go with Irving Stanley,
even should he ask her. Hugh needed her more
than Irving Stanley. He was, if possible, more
worthy of her. His noble, unselfish devotion
to ’Lina had finished the work begun on that
memorable night, when she said to him: “I
may learn to love you,” and from the moment
when to ’Lina’s passionate cry, “Will
no one pity me?” he had answered, “Yes,
’Lina, I will care for you,” her heart
had been all his own, and more than once as she watched
with him by ’Lina’s bedside, she had been
tempted to wind her arm around his neck and whisper
in his ear:

“Hugh, I love you now, I will be your wife.”

But propriety had held her back and made her far more
reserved toward him than she had ever been before.
Terribly jealous where she was concerned, Hugh was
quick to notice the change, and the gloomy shadow on
his face was not caused wholly by ’Lina’s
sad death, as many had supposed. Hugh was very
unhappy. Instead of learning to love him, as he
had sometimes hoped she might, Alice had come to dislike
him, shunning his society, and always making some
pretense to get away if, by chance, they were left
alone; and now, as the closing act in the sad drama,
Irving Stanley was coming to carry her off forever.

Hugh’s heart was very sore as he sat there waiting
for Alice to finish that letter, and speak to him
about it. What a long, long time it took her
to read it through—­longer than it needed,
he was sure, for the handwriting was very plain and
the letter very brief.

Alice knew he was waiting for her, and after hesitating
a while, she went up to him, and laying her hand on
his shoulder, as she had not done in weeks, she said:

“You will be glad to see your cousin?”

“Yes; I suppose so. Shall you?”

He turned partly around, so he could look at her;
and this it was which brought the blood so quickly
to her face, making her stammer as she replied:

“Of course I shall be glad. I like him
very much; but—­”

Here she stopped, for she did not know how to tell
Hugh that she was not glad in the way which he supposed.

“But what?” he asked, “What were
you going to say?” and in his eyes there was
a look which drove Alice’s courage away, and
made her answer:

“It’s queer the doctor did not tell him
anything except that ’Lina was sick.”

“There are a great many queer people in this
world,” Hugh replied, rather testily, while
Alice mildly rejoined.

“The letter has been delayed, and he will be
here day after to-morrow. Did you notice?”

“Yes; and as I am impatient to go for Adah,
the sooner he comes the better, for the sooner it
will leave me at liberty. Would it be very impolite
for me to go at once, and leave you to entertain him?”

Page 198

“Of course it would,” said Alice.
“Adah’s claim is a strong one, I’ll
admit; but the doctor and Mr. Murdock are doing their
best; and I ask, as a favor, that you remain at home
to meet Mr. Stanley.”

Now Hugh knew that nothing could have tempted him
to leave Spring Bank so long as Irving Stanley was
there; but as he was just in a mood to be unreasonable,
he replied that, “if Alice wished it, he should
remain at home until Mr. Stanley’s visit was
ended.”

Alice felt exceedingly uncomfortable, for never had
Hugh been so provokingly distant and cool, and she
was really glad when at last a carriage appeared across
the fields, and she knew the “city cousin,”
as Hugh called him, was coming.

CHAPTER XLII

IRVING STANLEY

He had come, and up in the chamber where ’Lina
died, was making the toilet necessary after his hot
dusty ride. Hugh, heartily ashamed of his conduct
for the last two days, had received him most cordially,
meeting him at the gate, and holding him by the hand,
as they walked together to the house, where Mrs. Worthington
stood waiting for him, her lips quivering, and tears
dimming her eyes, as she said to him: “Yes,
’Lina is dead.”

Irving had heard as much at the depot, and heard,
too, a strange story, the truth of which he greatly
doubted. Mrs. Worthington had been ’Lina’s
mother, he believed, and his sympathy went out toward
her at once, making him forget that Alice was not
there to meet him, as he half expected she would be,
although they were really comparative strangers.

It was not until a rather late hour that Alice joined
him, sitting upon the cool piazza, with Hugh as his
companion. In summer Alice always wore white,
and now, as she came tripping down the long piazza,
her muslin dress floating about her like a snowy mist,
her fair hair falling softly about her face and on
her neck, a few geranium leaves twined among the glossy
curls, and her lustrous eyes sparkling with excitement,
both Irving Stanley and Hugh held their breath and
watched her as she came, the one jealously and half
angry that she was so beautiful, the other admiringly
and with a feeling of wonder at the beauty he had never
seen surpassed.

Alice was perfectly self-possessed, and greeted Mr.
Stanley as she would have greeted any friend—­and
she was glad to see him—­spoke of Saratoga,
and then inquired for Mrs. Ellsworth about whom poor
’Lina had talked so much.

Mrs. Ellsworth was well, Irving said, though very
busy with her preparations for going to Europe, adding
“it was not so much pleasure which was taking
her there as by the hope that by some of the Paris
physicians her little deformed Jennie might be benefited.
She had secured a gem of a governess for her daughter,
a young lady whom he had not yet seen, but over whose
beauty and accomplishments his staid sister Carrie
had really waxed eloquent.”

Page 199

Hugh cared nothing for that governess, and after a
little, thinking he was not wanted, stole quietly
away, and being moodily inclined, rambled off to ’Lina’s
grave, half wishing, as he stood there in the moonlight,
that he, too, was lying beside it.

“Were I sure of heaven, it would be a blessed
thing to die,” he thought, “for this world
has little in it to make me happy. Oh, Alice,
Golden Hair, I could almost wish we had never met,
though, as I told her once, I would rather have loved
and lost her than never have loved her at all.”

Poor Hugh! He was mistaken with regard to Alice.
She was not listening to love words. She was
telling Irving Stanley as much of ’Lina’s
sad story as she thought necessary, and Irving, though
really interested, was, we must confess, too intent
on watching the changing expressions of her beautiful
face to comprehend it clearly in all its complicated
parts.

He understood that ’Lina was not, and that a
certain Adah Hastings was, Mrs. Worthington’s
child; understood, too, that Adah was the wife of Dr.
Richards—­that she had at some time, not
quite clear to him, been at Terrace Hill, but he somehow
received the impression that she eventually fled from
Spring Bank after recognizing the doctor, and never
once thought of associating her with the young woman
to whom, many months previously, he had been so kind
in the crowded car, and whose sad, brown eyes had
haunted him at intervals ever since.

Irving Stanley was not what could well be called fickle.
He admired ladies indiscriminately, respected them
all, liked some very much, and next to Alice was more
attracted by and pleased with Adah’s face than
any he had ever seen save that of “the Brownie,”
which seemed to him much like it. He had thought
of Adah often, but had as often associated her with
some tall, bewhiskered man, who loved her and her little
boy as she deserved to be loved. With this idea
constantly before him, Adah had gradually faded from
his mind, leaving there only the image of one who
had made the strongest impression upon him of any whom
he yet had met. Alice Johnson, she was the star
he followed now, hers the presence which would make
that projected tour through Europe all sunshine.
Irving had decided to be married; his mother said
he ought; Augusta said he ought; Mrs. Ellsworth said
he ought; and so, as Hugh suspected, he had come to
Kentucky for the sole purpose of asking Alice to be
his wife. At sight, however, of Hugh, so much
improved, so gentlemanly, and so fine looking, his
heart began to misgive him, and Hugh would have been
surprised could he have known that Irving Stanley
was as jealous of him as he was of Irving Stanley.
Yet, such was the fact, and it was a hard matter to
tell which was the more miserable of the two, Irving
or Hugh, when at last the latter returned from ’Lina’s
grave, and seated himself upon the moon-lighted piazza,
a little apart from the lovers, as he believed Irving
and Alice to be.

Page 200

By mutual consent the conversation turned upon the
war, and Alice could scarcely forbear laying her hand
in Hugh’s in token of approbation as she watched
the glow of enthusiasm kindling in his cheek, and the
fire of patriotism flashing from his dark, handsome
eyes.

“I wonder, with your strong desire to punish
the South, that you are not in the field,” Irving
said, a little dryly, for though not a sympathizer
with the rebellion, he was a Baltimorean, and not yet
quite as much aroused as Hugh, who replied at once:

“And so I should have been, but for circumstances
I could not control. I shall soon start in quest
of my sister, and when she is found I shall volunteer
at once, fighting like a blood-hound, until some ball
strikes me down.”

This he said savagely, and partly for Alice’s
benefit; never, however, glancing at her, and so he
failed to see the sudden pallor on her cheek, as she
heard, in fancy, the whizzing of the ball which was
to lay that stalwart form in the dust.

“No, sir,” Hugh continued fiercely, “it’s
not for lack of will that I am not with them to-day;
and, I assure you, nothing could take me to Europe
at such a time as this, unless I went to be rid of
the trouble,” and springing from his chair,
Hugh strode up and down the piazza, chafing like a
caged lion, while Irving Stanley’s face flushed
faintly at the insinuation he could not help understand,
and Alice looked surprised that Hugh should so far
have forgotten his position as host.

The same thought came to Hugh at last, and turning
suddenly in his walk, he confronted Irving Stanley,
and offering him his hand, said:

“Forgive me, sir, for my rudeness. When
I get upon the war, I grow too much excited.
I knew you were from Baltimore, and I was fearful you
might uphold that infernal mob which murdered the brave
Massachusetts boys. I could lay that city in
ashes.”

Irving took the offered hand, and answered, good humoredly:

“That would punish the innocent as well as the
guilty, so I am not with you there, though, like you,
I recoil in horror from the perpetration of that fiendish
attack upon peaceable troops. I was there myself,
and did what I could to quiet the tumult, receiving
more than one brickbat for my interference. One
word more, Cousin Hugh, I am not going to Europe to
be rid of the trouble, or for pleasure either, but
as my sister’s escort. I do not yet see
that my country needs me; when I do I shall come home
and join the Union army. We may meet yet on some
battlefield, and if we do you will see I am no coward
or traitor either.”

Alice’s face was white now as marble, and her
breath came hurriedly. The war, before so far
off, seemed very near—­a terrible reality,
when those two young men talked of standing side by
side on some field of carnage. Hugh noticed her
now, and attributing her emotions wholly to her fears
for Irving Stanley, wrung the hand of the latter and
then walked away, half wishing that the leafy woods
beyond the distant fields were so many human beings
and he was one of them, marching on to duty.

Page 201

In this quiet way two days went by, Irving Stanley,
quiet, pleasant, gentlemanly, and winning all hearts
by his extreme suavity of manner; Hugh, silent, fitful,
moody; Alice, artificially gay, and even merry, trying
so hard to make up Hugh’s deficiencies, that
she led poor Irving astray, and made him honestly
believe she might be won. It was on the morning
of the third day that he resolved to end the uncertainty,
and know just how she regarded him. Hugh had
gone to Frankfort, he supposed; Mrs. Worthington was
suffering from a nervous headache, while Densie, as
usual, sat in her own room, mostly silent, but occasionally
whispering to herself, “White nigger, white
nigger—­that’s me!” Apparently
it was the best opportunity he could have, and joining
Alice in the large, cool parlor, he seated himself
beside her, and with the thought that nothing was
gained by waiting, plunged at once into his subject.

“Alice,” he began, “I must leave
here to-morrow, and the business on which I came is
not yet transacted. Can’t you guess what
it is? Has not my manner told you why I came
to Kentucky?”

Alice was far too truthful to affect ignorance, and
though it cost her a most painful effort to do so,
she answered, frankly: “I think I can guess.”

“And you will not tell me no?” Irving
said, involuntarily winding his arm around her, and
drawing her drooping head nearer to him.

Just then a shadow fell upon them, but neither noticed
it, or dreamed of the tall form passing the window
and pausing long enough to see Irving Stanley’s
arm around Alice’s neck, to hear Irving Stanley
as he continued: “Darling Alice, you will
be my wife?”

The rest was lost to Hugh, who had not yet started
for Frankfort, as Irving supposed. With every
faculty paralyzed save that of locomotion, he hurried
away to where Rocket stood waiting for him, and mounting
his pet, went dashing across the fields, conscious
of nothing save that Golden Hair was lost forever.
In his rapid walk down the piazza he had not observed
Old Sam, seated in the door, nor heard the mumbled
words, “Poor Massa Hugh! I’se berry
sorry for him, berry! I kinder thought, ‘fore
t’other chap comed, Miss Ellis was hankerin’
after him a little. Poor Massa Hugh!”

Old Sam, like Hugh, had heard Irving Stanley’s
impassioned words, for the window nearby was opened
wide; he had seen, too, the deadly pallor on Hugh’s
face, and how for an instant he staggered, as from
a blow, covering his eyes with his hands and whispering
as he passed the negro, “Oh, Alice, Golden Hair!”

All this Sam had witnessed, and in his sympathy for
“Massa Hugh” he failed to hear the rest
of Irving’s wooing, or Alice’s low-spoken
answer. She could not be Irving Stanley’s
wife. She made him understand that, and then
added, sadly: “I am sorry I cannot love
you as I ought, for I well know the meed of gratitude
I owe to one who saved my life, and I have wanted
so much to thank you, only you did not seem to remember
me at all.”

Page 202

In blank amazement Mr. Stanley asked her what she
meant, while Alice, equally amazed, replied:
“Surely, you have not forgotten me? Can
I be mistaken? I am the little girl whom Irving
Stanley rescued from drowning, when the St. Helena
took fire, several years ago.”

“I was never on a burning boat, never saw the
St. Helena,” was Mr. Stanley’s
reply; and then for a moment the two regarded each
other intently, but Irving was the first to speak.

“It was Hugh,” he said. “It
must have been Hugh, for I remember now that when
he was a lad, or youth, his uncle sometimes called
him Irving, which is, I think, his middle name.”

“Yes, Yes, H.I. Worthington. I’ve
seen it written thus, but never thought to ask what
‘I.’ was for. It was Hugh, and I mistook
that old man for his father. I understand it
now,” and Alice spoke hurriedly, her fair face
coloring with excitement as the truth flashed upon
her that she was Golden Hair.

Then the bright color faded away, and alarmed at the
pallor which succeeded it, Irving Stanley passed his
arm supportingly around her, asking if she were faint.
Old Sam, moving away from the door, saw her as she
sat thus, but did not hear her reply: “It
takes me so by surprise. Poor Hugh, how he must
have suffered.”

She said this last more to herself than to Irving
Stanley, who, nevertheless, saw in it a meaning; and
looking her earnestly in the face, said to her:
“Alice, you cannot be my wife, because your heart
is given to Hugh Worthington. Is it not so?”

Alice would not deceive him, and she answered, frankly:
“It is,” while Irving replied: “I
approve your choice, although it makes me very wretched.
You will be happy with him. Heaven bless you both.”

He dared not trust himself to say another word, but
hurrying from her presence, sought the shelter of
the woods, where alone he could school himself to
bear this terrible disappointment.

Hugh did not return until evening, and the first object
he saw distinctly as he galloped to the house, was
Alice, sitting near to Irving upon the pleasant piazza,
just as it was natural that she should sit. He
did not observe that his mother was there with them;
he did not think of anything as he rode past them
with nod and smile, save that life henceforth was
but a dreary, hopeless blank to him.

Leaving Rocket in Claib’s care, he sauntered
to the back piazza, where Sam was sitting, and taking
a seat beside him startled him by saying that he should
start on the morrow in quest of his missing sister.

“Yes, massah,” was Sam’s quiet reply,
for he understood the reason of this sudden journey.

Old Sam pitied Hugh, and after a moment’s silence
his pity expressed itself in words. Laying his
dark hand on Hugh’s bowed head, he said:

“Poor Massah Hugh. Sam kin feel for you
ef he is black. Niggers kin love like the white
folks does.”

Page 203

“What do you mean? What do you know?”
Hugh asked, a little haughtily, while Sam fearlessly
replied:

“’Scuse me, massah, but I hears dem dis
mornin’—­hears de city chap sparkin’
Miss Ellis, and seen his arm spang round her, too,
with her sweet face, white as wool, lyin’ in
his buzzum.”

“You saw this after I was gone?” Hugh
asked, eagerly, and Sam replied:

“Yes, massah, strue as preachin’, and
I’se sorry for massah. I prays that he
may somewhar find anodder Miss Ellis, only not quite
so nice, ’cause he can’t.”

Hugh smiled bitterly, as he rejoined:

“Pray rather that I may find Adah, that is the
object now for which I live; and, Sam, keep what you
have seen to yourself. Be faithful to Miss Johnson
and kind to mother. There’s no telling when
I shall return. I may join the Federal Army,
but not a word of this to any one.”

“Oh, massah,” Sam began, but Hugh left
him ere he finished, and compelled himself to join
the group on the front side of the building, startling
them as he had Sam by announcing his determination
to start on the morrow for New York.

Alice’s exclamation of surprise was lost as
Irving rejoined:

“Then we may travel together, as I, too, leave
in the morning.”

Hugh gave him a rapid, searching glance, and then
his eye fell on Alice, whose white face he jealously
fancied was caused by the prospect of parting so soon
with her affianced husband. He could not guess
whether she were going to Europe or not. A few
weeks seemed so short a time in which to prepare,
that he half believed she might induce Mr. Stanley
to defer the trip till autumn. But he would not
ask. She would surely tell him at the last, he
thought. She ought, at least, to trust him as
a brother, and say to him:

“Hugh, I am engaged to Mr. Stanley, and when
you return, if you are long gone, I shall probably
not be here.”

But she said to him no such thing, and only the whiteness
of her face and the occasional quivering of her long
eyelashes, showed that she felt at all, as at an early
hour next morning she presided at the breakfast prepared
for the travelers. There was no tremor in her
voice, no hesitancy in her manner, and a stranger
could not have told which of the young men before
her held her heart in his possession, or which had
kept her wakeful the entire night, revolving the propriety
of telling him ere he left that the Golden Hair he
loved so much was willing to be his.

“Perhaps he will speak to me. I’ll
wait,” was the final decision, as, rising from
her sleepless pillow, she sat down in the gray dawn
of the morning and penned a hasty note, which she
thrust into his hand at parting, little dreaming how
long a time would intervene ere they would meet again.

He had not said to her or to his mother that he might
join the army, gathering so fast from every Northern
city and hamlet; only Sam knew this, and so the mother
longing for her daughter was pleased rather than surprised
at his abrupt departure, bidding him Godspeed, and
lading him with messages of love for Adah and the
little boy. Alice, too, tried to smile as she
said good-by, but it died upon her lips and a tear
trembled on her cheek, when Hugh dropped the little
hand he never expected to hold again just as he held
it then.

Page 204

Feeling intuitively that Irving and Alice would rather
say their parting words alone, Hugh drew his mother
with him as he advanced into the midst of the sobbing,
howling negroes assembled to see him off. But
Alice had nothing to say which she would not have
said in his presence. Irving Stanley understood
better than Hugh, and he merely raised her cold hand
to his lips, saying as he did so:

“Just this once; I shall never kiss it again.”

He was in the carriage when Hugh came up, and Alice
stood leaning against one of the tall pillars, a deep
flush now upon her cheek, and tears filling her soft
blue eyes. In another moment the carriage was
rolling from the yard, neither Irving nor Hugh venturing
to look back, and both as by mutual consent avoiding
the mention of Alice, whose name was not spoken once
during their journey together to Cincinnati, where
they parted company, Irving continuing his homeward
route, while Hugh stopped in the city to arrange a
matter of business with his banker there. It
was not until Irving was gone and he alone in his room
that he opened the little note given him by Alice,
the note which would tell him of her approaching marriage,
he believed. How then was he surprised when he
read:

“DEAR HUGH: I have at last
discovered the mistake under which, for so many
years, I have been laboring. It was not Irving
Stanley who saved me from the water, but your own
noble self, and you have generously kept silent
all this time, permitting me to expend upon another
the gratitude due to you.

“Dear Hugh, I wish I had known earlier,
or that you did not leave
us so soon. It seems so cold, thanking
you on paper, but I have no
other opportunity, and must do it here.

“Heaven bless you, Hugh. My
mother prayed often for the preserver of her child,
and need I tell you that I, too, shall never forget
to pray for you? The Lord keep you in all your
ways, and lead you safely to your sister.

“ALICE”

Many times Hugh read this note, then pressing it to
his lips thrust it into his bosom, but failed to see
what Alice had hoped he might see, that the love he
once asked for was his, and his alone. He was
too sure that another was preferred before him to
reason clearly, and the only emotions he experienced
from reading her note were feelings of pleasure that
she had been set right at last, and that Irving had
not withheld from her the truth.

“That ends the drama,” he said. “I
don’t quite believe she is going with him to
Europe, but she will be his when he returns; and henceforth
my duty must be to forget, if possible, that ever
I knew I loved her. Oh, Golden Hair, why did
I ever meet, or meeting you, why was I suffered to
love her so devotedly, if I must lose her at the last!”

There were great drops of sweat about Hugh’s
lips and on his forehead, as, burying his face in
his hands, he laid both upon the table, and battled
manfully with his love for Alice Johnson, a love which
refused at once to surrender its object, even though
there seemed no longer a shadow of hope in which to
take refuge.

Page 205

“God, help me in my sorrow,” was the prayer
which fell from the quivering lips, but did not break
the silence of that little room, where none, save
God, witnessed the conflict, the last Hugh ever fought
for Alice Johnson.

He could give her up at length; could think, without
a shudder, of the time when another than himself would
call her his wife; and when, late that afternoon,
he took the evening train for Cleveland, not one in
the crowded car would have guessed how sore was the
heart of the young man who plunged so energetically
into the spirited war argument in progress between
a Northern and Southern politician. It was a splendid
escape valve for his pent-up feelings, and Hugh carried
everything before him, taking by turns both sides
of the question, and effectually silencing the two
combatants, who said to each other in parting:
“We shall hear from that Kentuckian again, though
whether in Rebeldom or Yankeeland we cannot tell.”

CHAPTER XLIII

LETTERS FROM HUGH AND IRVING STANLEY

Claib had brought two letters from the office, one
for Mrs. Worthington from Hugh, and one for Alice
from Irving Stanley. This last had been long
delayed, and as she broke the seal a little nervously,
reading that his trip to Europe had been deferred
on account of the illness of his sister’s governess,
but that he was going on board the ship that day,
July tenth, and that his sister was there with him
and the governess, “A modest, sweet-faced body,”
he wrote, “who looks very girl-like from the
fact that her soft, brown hair is worn short in her
neck.”

Alice had a tolerably clear insight into Irving Stanley’s
character, and immediately her mind conjured up visions
of what might be the result of a sea voyage and months
of intimate companionship with that sweet-faced governess,
“who wore her soft, brown hair short in her neck.”

“I hope it may be so,” she thought; and
folding up her letter, she was about going out to
the rustic seat beneath a tall maple where Mug sat,
whispering over the primer she was trying so hard to
read, when a cry from Mrs. Worthington arrested her
attention and brought her at once to the side of the
half-fainting woman.

“What is it?” Alice asked, in much alarm,
and Mrs. Worthington replied: “Oh, Hugh,
Hugh, my boy! he’s enlisted, joined the army!
I shall never see him again!”

Could Hugh have seen Alice then he would not for a
moment have doubted the nature of her feelings toward
himself. She did not cry out, nor faint, but
her face turned white as the dress she wore, while
her hands pressed so tightly together, that her long,
taper nails left the impress in her flesh.

“God keep him from danger and death,”
she murmured; then, winding her arms around the stricken
mother, she wiped her tears away; and to her moaning
cry that she was left alone, replied: “Let
me be your child till he returns, or, if he never
does—­”

Page 206

She could get no further, for the very idea was overwhelming,
and sinking down beside Hugh’s mother, she laid
her head on her lap, and wept bitterly. Alas,
that scenes like this should be so common in our once
happy land, but so it is. Mothers start with terror
and grow faint over the boy just enlisted for the
war; then follow him with prayers and yearning love
to the distant battlefield; then wait and watch for
tidings from him; and then too often read with streaming
eyes and hearts swelling with agony, the fatal message
which says their boy is dead.

It was a sad day at Spring Bank when first the news
of Hugh’s enlistment came, sadder even than
when ’Lina died, for Hugh seemed as really dead
as if they all had heard the hissing shell or whizzing
ball which was to bear his young life away. It
was nearly two months since he left home, and he could
find no trace of Adah, though searching faithfully
for her, in conjunction with Murdock and Dr. Richards,
both of whom had joined him in New York.

“If Murdock cannot find her,” he wrote,
“I am convinced no one can, and I leave the
matter now to him, feeling that another duty calls
me, the duty of fighting for my country.”

It was just after the disastrous battle of Bull Run,
when people were wild with excitement, and Hugh was
thus borne with the tide, until at last he found himself
enrolled as a private in a regiment of cavalry gathering
in one of the Northern States. There had been
an instant’s hesitation, a clinging of the heart
to the dear old home at Spring Bank, where his mother
and Alice were; a thought of Irving Stanley, and then,
with an eagerness which made his whole frame tremble,
he had seized the pen and written down his name, amid
deafening cheers for the brave Kentuckian. This
done, there was no turning back; nor did he desire
it. It seemed as if he were made for war, so
eagerly he longed to join the fray. Only one
thing was wanting, and that was Rocket. He had
tried the “Yankee horses,” as he called
them, but found them far inferior to his pet.
Rocket he must have, and in his letter to his mother
he made arrangements for her to send him northward
by a Versailles merchant, who, he knew, was coming
to New York.

Hugh and Rocket, they would make a splendid match,
and so Alice thought, as, on the day when Rocket was
led away, she stood with her arms around his graceful
neck, whispering to him the words of love she would
fain have sent his master. She had recovered
from the first shock of Hugh’s enlistment.
She could think of him now calmly as a soldier; could
pray that God would keep him, and even feel a throb
of pride that one who had lived so many years in Kentucky,
then poising almost equally in the scale, should come
out so bravely for the right, though by that act he
called down curses on his head from those at home who
favored rebellion, and who, if they fought at all,
would cast in their lot with the seceding States.
She had written to Hugh a kind, sisterly letter, telling
him how proud she was of him, and how her sympathy
and prayers would follow him everywhere. “And
if,” she had added, in concluding, “you
are sick, or wounded, I will come to you as a sister
might do. I will find you wherever you are.”

Page 207

She had sent this letter to him three weeks before,
and now she stood caressing the beautiful Rocket,
who sometimes proudly arched his long neck, and then
looked wistfully at the sad group gathered around him,
as if he knew that was no ordinary parting. Colonel
Tiffton, who had heard what was going on, had ridden
over to expostulate with Mrs. Worthington against
sending Rocket North. “Better keep him at
home,” he said, “and tell Hugh to come
back, and let those who had raised the muss settle
their own difficulty.”

The old colonel, who was a native of Virginia, did
not know exactly where he stood. “He was
very patriotic,” he said, “very, but hanged
if he knew which side to take—­both were
wrong. He didn’t go Nell’s doctrine,
for Nell was a rabid Secesh; neither did he swallow
Abe Lincoln, and he’d advise Alice to keep a
little more quiet, for there was no knowing what the
hotheads might do. He’d heard of Harney’s
threatening vengeance on all Unionists, and now that
Hugh was gone he might pounce on Spring Bank any night.”

“Let him!” and Alice’s blue eyes
flashed brightly, while her girlish figure seemed
to expand and grow higher as she continued: “he
will find no cowards here. I never touched a
revolver in my life. I am quite as much afraid
of one that is not loaded as of one that is, but I’ll
conquer the weakness. I’ll begin to-day.
I’ll learn to handle firearms. I’ll
practice shooting at a mark, and if Hugh is killed
I’ll—­oh, Hugh! Hugh—­”

She could not tell what she would do, for the woman
conquered all other feelings, and laying her face
on Rocket’s silken mane, she sobbed aloud.

“There’s pluck, by George!” muttered
the old colonel. “I most wish Nell was
that way of thinking.”

It was time now for Rocket to go, and ’mid the
deafening howls of the negroes and the tears of Mrs.
Worthington and Alice he was led away, the latter
watching him until he was lost to sight beyond the
distant hill, then, falling on her knees, she prayed,
as many a one has done, that God would be with our
brave soldiers, giving them the victory, and keeping
one of them, at least, from falling.

Sadly, gloomily the autumn days came on, and the land
was rife with war and rumors of war. In the vicinity
of Spring Bank were many patriots, but there were
hot Secessionists there also, and bitter contentions
ensued. Old friends were estranged, families were
divided, neighbors watched each other jealously, while
all seemed waiting anxiously for the result.
Toward Spring Bank the aspersions of the Confederate
adherents were particularly directed. That Hugh
should go North and join the Federal army was taken
as an insult, while Mrs. Worthington and Alice were
closely watched, and all their sayings eagerly repeated.
But Alice did not care. Fully convinced of the
right, and that she had yet a work to do, she carried
out her plan so boldly announced to Colonel Tiffton,
and all through the autumn months the frequent clash
of firearms was heard in the Spring Bank woods, where
Alice, with Mug at her side, like her constant shadow,
“shot at her marks,” hitting once Colonel
Tiffton’s dog, and coming pretty near hitting
the old colonel himself as he rode leisurely through
the woods.

Page 208

After that Alice confided her experiments to the open
fields, where she could see whatever was in danger,
and Harney, galloping up and down the pike, stirring
up dissension and scattering his opinions broadcast
through the country, saw her more than once at her
occupation, smiling grimly as he muttered to himself:
“It’s possible I may try a hand with you
at shooting some day, my fair Yankee miss.”

Blacker, and darker, and thicker the war clouds gathered
on our horizon, but our story has little to do with
that first year of carnage, when human blood was poured
as freely as water, from the Cumberland to the Potomac.
Over all that we pass, and open the scene again in
the summer of ’62, when people were gradually
waking to the fact that Richmond was not so easily
taken, or the South so easily conquered.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE DESERTER

There had been a desertion from a regiment on the
Potomac. An officer of inferior rank, but whose
position had been such as to make him the possessor
of much valuable information, and whose perfect loyalty
had been for some time suspected, was missing from
his command one morning, and under such circumstances
as to leave little doubt that his intention was to
reach the enemy’s lines if possible. Long
and loud were the invectives against the traitor,
and none were deeper in their denunciations than Captain
Hugh Worthington, as, seated on his fiery war horse,
Rocket, he heard from Irving Stanley the story of Dr.
Richards’ disgrace.

“He should be pursued, brought back, and shot!”
he said, emphatically, feeling that he would like
much to be one of the pursuers, already on the track
of the treacherous doctor, who skillfully eluded them
all, and just at the close of a warm summer day, when
afar, in his New England home, his Sister Anna was
reading, with an aching heart, the story of his disgrace,
he sat in the shadow of the Virginia woods, weary,
footsore and faint with the pain caused from his ankle,
sprained by a recent fall.

He had hunted for Adah until entirely discouraged,
and partly as a panacea for the remorse preying so
constantly upon him, and partly in compliance with
Anna’s entreaties, he had at last joined the
Federal army, and been sworn in with the full expectation
of some lucrative office. But his unlucky star
was in the ascendant. Stories derogatory to his
character were set afloat, and the final result of
the whole was that he found himself enrolled in a
company where he knew he was disliked, and under a
captain whom he thoroughly detested, for the fraud
practiced upon himself. In this condition he was
sent to the Potomac, and while on duty as a picket,
grew to be on the most friendly terms with more than
one of the enemy, planning at last to desert, and
effecting his escape one stormy night, when the watch
were off their guard. Owing to some mistake,
the aid promised by his Rebel friends had not been

Page 209

extended, and as best he could he was making his way
to Richmond, when, worn out with hunger, watchfulness
and fatigue, he sank down to die, as he believed,
at the entrance of some beautiful woods which skirted
the borders of a well-kept farm in Virginia. Before
him, at the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile,
a large, handsome house was visible, and by the wreath
of smoke curling from the rear chimney, he knew it
was inhabited, and thought once to go there, and beg
for the food he craved so terribly. But fear
kept him back—­the people might be Unionists,
and might detain him a prisoner until the officers
upon his track came up. Dr. Richards was cowardly,
and so with a groan, he laid his head upon the grass,
and half wished that he had died ere he came to be
the miserable wretch he was. The pain in his ankle
was by this time intolerable, and the limb was swelling
so fast that to walk on the morrow was impossible,
and if he found a shelter at all, it must be found
that night.

Midway between himself and the house was a comfortable-looking
barn, whither he resolved to go. But the journey
was a tedious one, and brought to his flushed forehead
great drops of sweat, wrung out by the agony it caused
him to step upon his foot. At last, when he could
bear his weight upon it no longer, he sank upon the
ground, and crawling slowly upon his hands and knees,
reached the barn just as it was growing dark, and
the shadows creeping into the corners made him half
shrink with terror lest they were the bayonets of
those whose coming he was constantly expecting.
He could not climb to the scaffolding, and so he sought
a friendly pile of hay, and crouching down behind it,
ere long fell asleep for the first time in three long
days and nights.

The early June sun was just shining through the cracks
between the boards when he awoke, sore, stiff, feverish,
burning with thirst, and utterly unable to use the
poor, swollen foot, which lay so helplessly upon the
hay.

“Oh, for Anna now,” he moaned; “if
she were only here; or Lily, dear Lily, she would
pity and forgive, could she see me now.”

But hark, what sound is it which falls upon his ear,
making him quake with fear, and, in spite of his aching
ankle, creep farther behind the hay? It is a
footstep—­a light, tripping step, and it
comes that way, nearer, nearer, until a shadow falls
between the open chinks and the bright sunshine without.
Then it moves on, around the corner, pausing for a
moment, while the hidden coward holds his breath, and
listens anxiously, hoping nothing is coming there.
But there is, and it enters the same door through
which he came the previous night—­a girlish
figure, with a basket on her arm—­a basket
in which she puts the eggs she knows just where to
find. Not behind the hay, where a poor wretch
was almost dead with terror. There was no nest
there, and so she failed to see the ghastly face,
pinched with hunger and pain, the glassy eyes, the
uncombed hair, and soiled tattered garments of him
who once was known as one of fashion’s most
fastidious dandies.

Page 210

She had secured her eggs for the morning meal, and
the doctor hoped she was about to leave, when there
was a rustling of the hay, and he almost uttered a
scream of fear. But the sound died on his lips,
as he heard the voice of prayer—­heard that
young girl as she prayed, and the words she uttered
stopped, for an instant, the pulsations of his heart,
and partly took his senses away. First for her
baby boy she prayed, asking that God would be to him
father and mother both, and keep him from temptation.
Then for her country, her distracted, bleeding country,
and the doctor, listening to her, knew it was no Rebel
tongue calling so earnestly on God to save the Union,
praying so touchingly for the poor, suffering soldiers,
and coming at last even to him, the miserable outcast,
whose bloodshot eyes grew blind, and whose brain grew
giddy and wild, as he heard again Lily’s voice,
pleading for George, wherever he might be. She
did not say: “God send him back to me, who
loves him still.” She only asked forgiveness
for the father of her boy, but this was proof to the
listener that she did not hate him, and forgetful of
his pain he raised himself upon his elbow, and looking
over the pile of hay, saw her where she knelt.
Lily, Adah, his wife, her fair face covered by her
hands, and her soft, brown hair cut short and curling
in her neck.

Twice he essayed to speak, but his tongue refused
to move, and he sank back exhausted, just as Adah
arose from her knees and turned to leave the barn.
He could not let her go. He should die before
she came again; he was half dying now, and it would
be so sweet to breathe out his life upon her bosom,
with perhaps her forgiving kiss upon his lips.

“Adah!” he tried to say; but the quivering
lips made no sound, and Adah passed out, leaving him
there alone. “Adah, Lily, Anna,” he
gasped, hardly knowing himself whose name he called
in his despair.

She heard that sound, and started suddenly, for she
thought it was her old, familiar name which no one
knew there at Sunny Mead. For a moment she paused;
but it came not again, and so she turned the corner,
and her shadow fell a second time on the haggard face
pressed against that crevice in the wall, the opening
large enough to thrust the long fingers through, in
the wild hope of detaining her as she passed.

“Adah!”

It was a gasping, bitter cry; but it reached her,
and looking back, she saw the pale hand beckoning,
the fingers motioning feebly, as if begging her to
return. There was a moment’s hesitation,
and then conquering her timidity, Adah went back,
shuddering as she passed the still beckoning hand,
and caught a glimpse of the wild eyes peering at her
through the crevice.

“Adah!”

Page 211

She heard it distinctly now, and with it came thoughts
of Hugh. It must be he; and her feet scarcely
touched the ground in her eagerness to find him.
Over the threshold, across the floor, and behind the
hay she bounded; but stood aghast at the spectacle
before her. He had struggled to his knees; and
with his sprained limb coiled under him, his ashen
lips apart, and his arms stretched out, he was waiting
for her. But Adah did not spring into those trembling
arms, as once she would have done. She would
never willingly rest in their embrace again; and utter,
overwhelming surprise was the only emotion on her face
as she recognized him, not so much by his looks as
by the name he gave her.

“George, oh, George, how came you here?”
she asked, drawing backward from the arm reached out
to touch her.

He felt that he was repulsed, and, with a wail which
smote painfully on Adah’s heart, he fell forward
on his face, sobbing: “Oh, Adah, Lily,
pity me, pity me, if you can’t forgive!
I have slept for three nights in the woods, without
once tasting food! My ankle is sprained, my strength
is gone, and I wish that I were dead!”

She had drawn nearer to him, while he spoke, near
enough to recognize her country’s uniform, all
soiled and tattered though it was. He was a soldier,
then—­Liberty’s loyal son—­and
that fact awoke a throb of pity.

“George,” she said, kneeling down beside
him, and laying her hand upon his ragged coat, “tell
me how came you here, and where is your company?”

He would not deceive her, though tempted to do so,
and he answered her truthfully: “Lily,
I am a deserter. I am trying to join the enemy!”

He did not see the indignant flash of her eyes, or
the look of scorn upon her face, but he felt the reproach
her silence implied, and dared not look up.

“George,” she began at last, sternly,
very sternly, “but for Him who bade us forgive
seventy times seven, I should feel inclined to leave
you here to die; but when I remember how much He is
tried with one, I feel that I am to be no one’s
judge. Tell me, then, why you have deserted;
and tell me, too—­oh, George, in mercy—­tell
me if you know aught of Willie?”

The mother had forgotten all the wrongs heaped upon
the wife, and Adah drew nearer to him now, so near,
indeed, that his arm encircled her at last, and held
her close; but the ragged, dirty, fallen creature did
not dare to kiss her, and could only press her convulsively
to his breast, as he attempted an answer to her question.

“You must be quick,” she said, suddenly
remembering herself; “it is growing late, Mrs.
Ellsworth will be waiting for her breakfast; and since
the stampede of her servants, two old negroes and myself
are all there are left to care for the house.
Stay,” she added, as a new thought seemed to
strike her; “I must go, or they will look for
me; but after breakfast I will return, and do for
you what I can. Lie down again upon the hay.”

Page 212

She spoke kindly to him, but he felt it was as she
would have spoken to any one in distress, and not
as once she had addressed him. But he knew that
he deserved it, and he suffered her to leave him, watching
her with streaming eyes as she hurried along the path,
and counting the minutes, which seemed to him like
hours, ere he saw her returning. She was very
white when she came back, and he noticed that she frequently
glanced toward the house, as if haunted by some terror.
Constantly expecting detection, he grasped her arm,
as she bent to bathe his swollen foot, and whispered
huskily: “Adah, there’s something
on your mind—­some evil you fear. Tell
me, is any one after me!”

“They ought to do so,” trembled on Adah’s
lips, but she suppressed the words, and went on bandaging
up the ankle, and handling it as carefully as if it
had not belonged to a deserter.

He did not feel pain now in his anxiety, as he asked:
“Who is it, Adah? who’s after me?”
but he started when she replied, with downcast eyes
and a flush upon her cheek: “Major Irving
Stanley. You were in his regiment, the ——­th
New York Volunteers.”

Dr. Richards drew a relieved breath. “I’d
rather it were he than Captain Worthington, who hates
me so cordially. Adah, you must hide me; I have
so much to tell. I know your parents, your brother,
your husband; and I am he. It was not a mock
marriage. It has been proved real. It was
a genuine justice who married us, and you are my lawful
wife. Oh, pray, please don’t hurt me so.”
He uttered a scream of pain as Adah’s hands
pressed heavily now upon the hard, purple flesh.

She scarcely knew what she was doing as she listened
to his words and heard that she was indeed his wife.
Two years before, such news would have overwhelmed
her with delight, but now for a single instant a fierce
and almost resentful pang shot through her heart as
she thought of being bound for life to one for whom
she had no love, and whose very caresses made her
loathe him more and more. But when she thought
of Willie, and how the stain upon his birth was washed
away, the hard look left her eyes, and her hot tears
dropped upon the ankle she was bandaging.

“You are glad?” he asked, looking at her
curiously, for her manner puzzled him.

“Yes, very glad for Willie,” she replied,
keeping her face bent down so he could not see its
expression.

Then when her task was done, she seemed to nerve herself
for some powerful task, and sitting down upon the
hay, out of reach of his arms, she said:

“Tell me now all that has happened since I left
Terrace Hill; but first of Willie. You say Anna
has him?”

“Yes, Anna—­Mrs. Millbrook,”
he replied, and was about to say more, when Adah interrupted
him with:

Page 213

“It may spare you some pain if I tell you first
what I know of the tragedy at Spring Bank. I
know that ’Lina is dead, and that the fact of
my existence prevented the marriage. So much I
heard Mr. Stanley tell his sister. I had just
come to her then. She was prouder toward me than
she is now, and with a look silenced him from talking
in my presence, so that was all I ever knew, as I
dared not question her lest I should be suspected.
Go on, you spoke of my parents, my brother. Who
are they?”

Her manner perplexed him greatly, but he controlled
himself, while he repeated rapidly the story known
already to our readers, the story which made Adah
reel where she sat, and turn so white that he attempted
to reach her, and so keep her from falling. But
just the touch of his hand had power to arouse her,
and drawing back she laid her face in the hay, and
moaned:

“That gentle woman, my mother; that noble Hugh,
my brother! it’s more than I ever hoped.
Oh, Heavenly Father, accept my thanks for this great
happiness. A mother and a brother found.”

“And husband, too,” chimed in the doctor,
eagerly, “thank Him for me, Adah. You are
glad to find me?”

There was pleading in his tone—­earnest
pleading, for the terrible conviction was fastening
itself upon him, that not as they once parted had
he and Adah met. For full five minutes Adah lay
upon the hay, her whole soul going out in a prayer
of thankfulness for her great joy, and for strength
to bear the bitterness mingling with her joy.
Her face was very white when she lifted it up at last,
but her manner was composed, and she questioned the
doctor calmly of Spring Bank, of Alice, of Hugh, of
Anna, but could not trust herself to say much to him
of Willie, lest her calmness should give way, and
a feeling spring up in her heart of something like
affection for Willie’s father. Alas, for
the miserable man. He had found his wife, his
Adah, but there was between them a gulf which his
own act had built, and which he never more might pass.
He began to suspect it, and ere she had finished the
story of her wanderings, which at his request she
told, he knew there was no pulsation of her heart
which beat for him. He asked her where she had
been since she fled from Terrace Hill, and how she
came to be in Mrs. Ellsworth’s family.

There was a moment’s hesitancy, as if she were
deciding how much to tell him of the past, and then
resolving to keep nothing back which he might know,
she told him how, with a stunned heart and giddy brain,
she had gone to Albany, and mingling with the crowd
had mechanically followed them down to a boat just
starting for New York. That, by some means, she
never knew how, she found herself in the saloon, and
seated next to a feeble, deformed little girl, who
lay upon the sofa, and whose sweet, childish voice
said to her pityingly:

“Does your head ache, lady, or what makes you
so white?”

Page 214

She had responded to that appeal, talking kindly to
the little girl, between whom and herself the friendliest
of relations were established and whose name she learned
was Jenny Ellsworth. The mother she did not then
see, as, during the journey down the river she was
suffering from a nervous headache, and kept her room.
From the child and child’s nurse, however, she
heard that Mrs. Ellsworth was going ere long to Europe,
and was anxious to secure some young and competent
person to act in the capacity of Jenny’s governess.
Instantly Adah’s decision was made. Once
in New York she would by letter apply for the situation,
for nothing then could so well suit her state of mind
as a tour to Europe, where she would be far away from
all she had ever known. Very adroitly she ascertained
Mrs. Ellsworth’s address, wrote to her a note
the day following her arrival in New York, and the
day following that, found her in Mrs. Ellsworth’s
parlor at the Brevoort House, where for a few days
she was stopping. She had been greatly troubled
to know what name to give, but finally resolved to
take her own, the one by which she was known ere George
Hastings crossed her path. Adah Maria Gordon was,
as she supposed, her real name, so in her note to
Mrs. Ellsworth she signed herself “Maria Gordon,”
omitting the Adah, which might lead to her being recognized.
From her little girl Mrs. Ellsworth had heard much
of the sweet young lady, who was so kind to her on
the boat, and was thus already prepossessed in her
favor.

Adah did not tell Dr. Richards, and perhaps she did
not herself know how surprised and delighted Mrs.
Ellsworth was with the fair, girlish creature, announced
to her as Miss Gordon, and who won her heart before
five minutes were gone, making her think it of no consequence
to inquire concerning her at Madam ——­’s
school, where she said she had been a pupil.

“My sister must have been there at the same
time,” Mrs. Ellsworth had said. “Perhaps
you remember her, Augusta Stanley?”

Yes, Miss Gordon remembered her well, but added modestly:

“She may have forgotten me, as I was only a
day scholar, and—­not—­not quite
her circle. I was poor.”

Charmed with her frankness, Mrs. Ellsworth decided
in her own mind to take her, but, for form’s
sake, she would write to her sister Augusta, recently
married, and living in Milwaukee.

“Your first name is Maria,” she said,
taking out her pencil to write it down.

Adah could not tell a lie, and she replied unhesitatingly:

“No, ma’am; my name is Adah Maria, but
I prefer being called Maria.”

Mrs. Ellsworth nodded, wrote down “Adah Maria
Gordon,” but in the letter sent that day to
Augusta, merely spoke of her governess in prospect
as a Miss Gordon, who had been at the same school
with Augusta, asking if she remembered her.

Page 215

Mrs. Ellsworth hesitated no longer, and ten days after
the receipt of this letter, Adah was duly installed
as governess to the delighted little Jennie, who learned
to love her gentle teacher with a love almost amounting
to idolatry.

“You were in Europe then, and that is the reason
why we could not find you,” Dr. Richards said,
adding, after a moment: “And Irving Stanley
went with you—­was your companion all the
while?”

“Yes, all the while,” and Adah’s
cold fingers worked nervously at the wisp of hay she
was twisting in her hand. “I had seen him
before—­he was in the cars when Willie and
I were on our way to Terrace Hill. Willie had
the earache, and he was so kind to us both.”

Adah looked fixedly now at the craven doctor, who
could not meet her glance, for well he remembered
the dastardly part he had played in that scene, where
his own child was screaming with pain, and he sat selfishly
idle.

“She don’t know I was there, though,”
he thought, and that gave him some comfort.

But Adah did know, and she meant he should know she
did. Keeping her calm brown eyes still fixed
upon him, she continued:

“I heard Mr. Stanley talking of you once to
his sister, and among other things he spoke of your
dislike for children, and referred to an occasion
in the cars, when a little boy, for whom his heart
ached, was suffering acutely, and for whom you evinced
no interest, except to call him a brat, and wonder
why his mother did not stay at home. I never knew
till then that you were so near to me.”

“It’s true, it’s true,” the
doctor cried, tears rolling down his soiled face;
“but I never guessed it was you. Lily, I
supposed it some ordinary woman.”

“So did Irving Stanley,” was Adah’s
quiet, cutting answer; “but his heart was open
to sympathy, even for an ordinary woman.”

The doctor could only moan, with his face still hidden
in his hands, until a sudden thought like a revelation
flashed upon him, and forgetting his wounded foot,
he sprang like a tiger to the spot where Adah sat,
and winding his arm firmly around her, whispered hoarsely:

“Adah, Lily, tell me you love this Irving Stanley.
My wife loves another than her husband.”

Adah did not struggle to release herself from his
close grasp. It was punishment she ought to bear,
she thought, but her whole soul loathed that close
embrace, and the loathing expressed itself in the tone
of her voice, as she replied:

“Until within an hour I did not suppose you
were my husband. You said you were not in that
letter; I have it yet; the one in which you told me
it was a mock marriage, as, by your own confession,
it seems you meant it should be.”

“Oh, darling, you kill me, yet I deserve it
all; but, Adah, I have suffered enough to atone for
the dreadful past; and I tried so hard to find you.
Forgive me, Lily, forgive,” and falling again
on his knees, the wretched man poured forth a torrent
of entreaties for her forgiveness, her love, without
which he should die.

Page 216

Holding fast her cold hands, he pleaded with all his
eloquence, until, maddened by her silence, he even
taunted her with loving another, while her own husband
was living.

Then Adah started, and pushing him away, sprang to
her feet, while the hot blood stained her face and
neck, and a resentful fire gleamed from her brown
eyes.

“It is not well for you to reproach me with
faithlessness,” she said, “you, who have
dealt so treacherously by me; you, who deliberately
planned my ruin, and would have effected it but for
the deeper-laid scheme of one you say is my father.
No thanks to you that I am a lawful wife. You
did not make me so of your own free will. You
did to me the greatest wrong a man can do a woman,
then cruelly deserted me, and now you would chide
me for respecting another more than I do you.”

He was sobbing bitterly, and the words came between
the sobs, while he tried to clutch her dress.
Staggering backward against the wooden beam, Adah
leaned there for support, while she replied:

“You would not understand if I should tell you
the terrible struggle it was for me to be thrown each
day in the society of one as noble, as good as Irving
Stanley, and not come at last to feel for him as a
poor governess ought never to feel for the handsome,
gifted brother of her employer. Oh, George, I
prayed against it so much, prayed to be kept from
the sin, if it were a sin, to have Irving Stanley mingled
with every thought. But the more I prayed, the
more the temptation seemed thrust upon me. The
kinder, gentler, more attentive, grew his manners
toward me. He never treated me as a mere governess.
It was more like an equal at first, and then like
a younger sister, so that few strangers took me for
a subordinate, so kind were both Mrs. Ellsworth and
her brother.”

“He never told me so; never said to me a word
which a husband should not hear; but—­sometimes
I’ve fancied, I’ve feared, I’ve left
him abruptly lest he should speak, for that I know
would bring the crisis I so dreaded. I must tell
him the whole then, and by my dread of doing this,
I knew he was more than a friend to me. I was
fearful at first that he might recognise me, but I
was much thinner than when I saw him in the cars,
while my hair, purposely worn short, and curling in
my neck, changed my looks materially, so that he only
wondered whom I was so much like, but never suspected
the truth.”

There was silence, a moment, and then the doctor asked:
“How is all this to end?”

The question brought into Adah’s eyes a fearful
look of anguish, but she did not answer, and the doctor
spoke again.

Page 217

“Have I found Lily only to lose her?”

Still there was no reply, and the doctor continued:
“You are my wife, Adah. No power can undo
that, save death, and you are my child’s mother.
For Willie’s sake, oh, Adah, for Willie’s
sake, forgive.”

When he appealed to her as his wife, Adah seemed turning
into stone; but the mention of Willie touched the
mother within that girlish woman, and the iceberg
melted at once.

“For Willie, my boy,” she gasped, “I
could do almost anything; I could die so willingly
but—­but—­oh, George, that ever
we should come to this. You a deserter, a traitor
to your country—­lamed, disabled, wholly
in my power, and begging of me, your outcast wife,
for the love which surely is dead—­dead.
No, George, I do forgive, but never, never more can
I be to you a wife.”

There was a rising resentment now in the doctor’s
manner, as he answered reproachfully: “Then
surrender me at once to the lover hunting for me.
Let him take me back where I can be shot and that will
leave you free.”

Adah raised her hand deprecatingly, and when he had
finished, rejoined: “You mistake Major
Stanley, if you think he would marry me, knowing what
I should tell him. It’s not for him that
I refuse. It’s for myself. I could
not bear it. I—­”

“Stay, Adah, Lily, don’t say you should
hate me;” and the doctor’s voice was so
full of anguish that Adah involuntarily advanced toward
him, standing quite near, while he begged of her to
say if the past could not be forgotten. His family
were ready, were anxious to receive her. Sweet
Anna Millbrook already loved her as a sister, while
he, her husband, words could not tell his love for
her. He would do whatever she required; go back
to the Federal army if she said so; seek for the pardon
he was sure to gain; fight for his country like a hero,
periling life and limb, if she would only give him
the shadow of a hope.

“I must have time to think. I cannot decide
alone,” Adah answered, while the doctor clutched
her dress, half shrieking with terror:

“You surely will not consult him, Major Stanley?”

“No,” and Adah spoke reverently, “there’s
a mightier friend than he. One who has never
failed me in my need. He will tell me what to
do.”

The doctor knew now what she meant, and with a moan
he laid his head again upon the hay, wishing, oh,
so much, that the lessons taught him when in that
little attic chamber, years ago, he knelt by Adah’s
side, and said with her, “Our Father,”
had not been all forgotten. When he lifted up
his face again, Adah was gone, but he knew she would
return, and waited patiently while just outside the
door, with her fair face buried in the sweet Virginia
grass, and the warm summer sunshine falling softly
upon her, poor half-crazed Adah fought and won the
fiercest battle she had ever known, coming off conqueror
over self, and feeling sure that God had heard her
earnest cry for help, and told her what to do.
There was no wavering now; her step was firm; her voice
steady, as she went back to the doctor’s side,
and bending over him, said:

Page 218

“I will nurse you, my husband, till you are
well; then you must go back whence you came, confess
your fault, rejoin your regiment, and by your faithfulness
wipe out the stain of desertion. Then, when the
war is over, or you are honorably discharged, I will—­be
your wife. I may not love you at first as once
I did, but I shall try, and He, who counsels me to
tell you this, will help me, I am sure.”

It was almost pitiful now to see the doctor, as, spaniel-like,
he crouched at Adah’s feet, kissing her hands
and blessing her ’mid his tears. “He
would be worthy of her, and they should yet be so happy.”

Adah suffered him to caress her for a moment, and
then told him she must go, for Mrs. Ellsworth would
wonder at her long absence, and possibly institute
a search. Pressing one more kiss upon her hand
the doctor crept back to his hiding place, while Adah
went slowly to the house where she knew Irving Stanley
was anxiously waiting for her. She dared not
meet him alone now, for latterly each time they had
so met, she knew she had kept at bay the declaration
trembling on his lips, and which now must never be
listened to. So she stayed away from the pleasant
parlor where all the morning he sat chatting with
his sister, who guessed how much he loved the beautiful
and accomplished girl, whom, by way of his sister
Augusta he now knew as the Brownie he had once seen
at Madam ——­’s school, in New
York.

Right-minded and high-principled, Mrs. Ellsworth had
conquered any pride she might at first have felt—­any
reluctance to her brother’s marrying her governess,
and now like him was anxious to have it settled.
But Adah gave him no chance that day, and late in
the afternoon he rode back to his regiment, wondering
at the change in Miss Gordon, and why her face was
so deadly white, and her voice so husky, as she bade
him good-by.

Poor Adah! Hers was now a path of suffering,
such as she had never known before. But she did
her duty to the doctor faithfully, nursing him with
the utmost care; but never expressing to him the affection
she did not feel. It was impossible to keep his
presence there a secret from the two old negroes,
and knowing she could trust them, she told them of
the wounded Union soldier, enlisting their sympathies
for him, and thus procuring for him the care of older
and more experienced people than herself.

He was able at length to return, and one pleasant
summer night, just three weeks after his arrival at
Sunnymead, Adah walked with him to the woods, and
kneeling with him by a running stream, whose waters
farther away would yet be crimson with the blood of
our slaughtered brothers, she commended him to God.
Through the leafy branches the moonbeams were shining,
and they showed to Adah the expression of the doctor’s
wasted face as he said to her at parting: “I
have kissed you many times, my darling, but you have
never returned it. Please do so once, dear Lily,
for the sake of the olden time. It will make me
a better soldier.”

Page 219

She kissed him once for the sake of the olden time,
and when he whispered, “Again for Willie’s
sake,” she kissed him twice, and then she bade
him leave her, herself buttoning about him the soldier
coat which her own hands had cleaned and mended and
made respectable. She was glad afterward that
she had done so; glad, too, that she had kissed him
and waited by the tree, where, looking backward, he
could see the flutter of her white dress until a turn
in the forest path hid her from his view.

CHAPTER XLV

THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN

The second disastrous battle at Bull Run was over,
and the shadow of a summer night wrapped the field
of carnage in darkness. Thickly upon the battlefield
lay the dead and dying, the sharp, bitter cries of
the latter rising on the night wind, and adding tenfold
to the horror of the scene. In the woods, not
very far away, more than one brave soldier was weltering
in his lifeblood, just where, in his rapid flight,
he had fallen, the grass his pillow, and the leafy
branches of the forest trees his only covering.

Side by side, and near to a running brook, two wounded
men were lying, or rather one was supporting the other
and trying to stanch the purple gore, pouring darkly
from a fearful bullet wound in the region of the heart.
The stronger of the two, he who wore a major’s
uniform, had come accidentally upon the other, writhing
in agony, and muttering at intervals snatches of the
prayer with which he once had been familiar, and which
seemed to bring Lily back to him again, just as she
was when in the attic chamber she made him kneel by
her, and say “Our Father.” He tried
to say it now, and the whispered words caught the ear
of Irving Stanley, arresting his steps at once.

“Poor fellow! it’s gone hard with you,”
he said, kneeling by the sufferer, whom he recognized
as the deserter, Dr. Richards, who had returned to
his allegiance, had craved forgiveness for his sins,
and been restored to the ranks, discharging his duties
faithfully, and fighting that day with a zeal and
energy which did much in reinstating him in the good
opinion of those who witnessed his daring bravery.

But the doctor’s work was done, and never from
his lips would Lily know how well his promise had
been kept. Giddy with pain and weak from the
loss of blood, he had groped his way through the woods,
fighting back the horrid certainty that to-morrow’s
sun would not rise for him, and sinking at length
exhausted upon the grass, whose freshness was now
defaced by the blood which poured so freely from his
wound.

Page 220

It was thus that Irving Stanley found him, starting
at first as from a hissing shell, and involuntarily
clasping his hand over the place where lay a little
note, received a few days before, a reply to the earnest
declaration of love he had at last written to his sister’s
governess, Maria Gordon. There was but one alternative,
and Adah met it resolutely, though every fiber of
her heart throbbed with keen agony as she told to
Irving Stanley the story of her life. She was
a wife, a mother, the sister of Hugh Worthington,
they said, the Adah for whom Dr. Richards had sought
so long in vain, and for whom Murdock, the wicked father,
was seeking still for aught she knew to the contrary.
Even the story of the doctor’s secretion in
the barn at Sunnymead was confessed. Nothing was
withheld except the fact that even as he professed
to love her, so she in turn loved him, or had done
so before she knew it was a sin. Surprise had,
for a few moments, stifled every other emotion, and
Irving Stanley had sat like one suddenly bereft of
motion, when he read who Maria Gordon was. Then
came the bitter thought that he had lost her, mingled
with a deep feeling of resentment toward the man who
had so cruelly wronged the gentle girl, and who alone
stood between him and happiness. For Irving Stanley
could overlook all the rest. His great warm heart,
so full of kindly sympathy and generous charity for
all mankind could take to its embrace the fair, sweet
woman he had learned to love so much, and be a father
to her little boy, as if it had been his own.
But this might not be. There was a mighty obstacle
in the way, and feeling that it mattered little now
whether he ever came from the field alive, Irving
Stanley, with a whispered prayer for strength to bear
and do right, had hidden the letter in his bosom,
and then, when the hour of conflict came, plunged
into the thickest of the fight with a fearlessness
born of keen and recent disappointment, which made
life less valuable than it had been before.

It is not strange, then, that he should start and
stagger backward when he came so suddenly upon the
doctor, or that the first impulse of weak human nature
was to leave the fallen man, but the second, the Christian
impulse, bade him stay, and forgetting his own slight
but painful wound, he bent over Adah’s husband,
and did what he could to alleviate the anguish he
saw was so hard to bear. At the sound of his voice,
a spasm of pain passed over the doctor’s pallid
face, and the flash of a sudden fire gleamed for a
moment in his eye, as he, too, remembered Adah, and
thought of what might be when the grass was growing
over his untimely grave.

The doctor knew that he was dying, and yet his first
question was:

“Do you think I can live? Did any one ever
recover with such a wound as this?”

Eagerly the dim eyes sought the face above them, the
kind, good face of one who would not deceive him.
Irving shook his head as he felt the pulse, and answered
frankly:

Page 221

“I believe you will die.”

There was a bitter moan, as all his misspent life
came up before him, followed closely by the dark future,
where there shone no ray of hope, and then with the
desperate thought, “It’s too late now for
regrets. I’ll meet it like a man,”
he said:

“It may as well be I as any one, though it’s
hard even for me to die; harder than you imagine;”
then, growing excited as he talked, he raised himself
upon his elbow, and continued: “Major Stanley,
tell me truly, do you love the woman you know as Maria
Gordon?”

“I did love her once, before I knew I must not—­but
now—­I—­yes, Dr. Richards, my
heart tells me that never was she so dear to me as
now when her husband lies dying at my side.”

Irving Stanley hardly knew what he was saying, but
the doctor—­the husband, understood, and
almost shrieked out the words:

“You know then that she is Adah, a wife, a mother,
and that I am her lawful husband?”

“I know the whole,” was the reply, as
with his hand Irving dipped water from the brook and
laved the feverish brow of the dying man, who went
on to speak of Adah as she was when he first knew
her, and of the few happy months spent with her in
those humble lodgings.

“You don’t know my darling,” he
whispered. “She’s an angel, and I
might have been so happy with her. Oh, if I could
only live, but that can’t be now, and it is
well. Come close to me, Major Stanley, and listen
while I tell you that Adah promised if I would do
my duty to my country faithfully, she would live with
me again, and all the while she promised, her heart
was breaking, for she did not love me. It had
all died out for me. It had been given to another;
can you guess to whom?”

Irving made no reply, except to chafe the hands which
clasped his so tightly, and the doctor continued:

“I am surely dying—­I shall never
see her more, or my boy, my beautiful boy. I
was a brute in the cars; you remember the time.
That was Adah, and those little feet resting on my
lap were Willie’s, baby Willie’s, Adah’s
baby.”

The doctor’s mind was wandering now, and he
kept on disconnectedly:

“She’s been to Europe with him. She’s
changed from the shy girl into a queenly woman.
Even the Richards line might be proud of her bearing,
and when I’m gone, tell her I said you might
have Willie, and—­and—­it grows
very dark; the noise of the battle drowns my voice,
but come nearer to me, nearer—­tell her—­tell
Adah, you may have her. She needn’t mourn,
nor wait; but carry me back to Snowdon. There’s
no soldier’s grave there yet. I never thought
mine would be the first. Anna will cry, and mother
and Asenath and Eudora; but Adah, oh Lily, darling.
She’s coming to me now. Don’t you
hear that rustle in the grass?” and the doctor
listened intently to a sound which also caught Irving’s
ear, a sound of a horse’s neigh in the distance,
followed by the tramp of feet.

Page 222

“Hush-sh,” he whispered. “It
may be the enemy,” but his words were not regarded,
or understood.

The doctor was in Lily’s presence, and in fancy
it was her hand, not Irving’s which wiped the
death-sweat from his brow, and he murmured words of
love and fond endearment, as to a living, breathing
form. Fainter and fainter grew the pulse, weaker
and weaker the trembling voice, until at last Irving
could only comprehend that some one was bidden to
pray—­to say “Our Father.”

Reverently, as for a departing brother, he prayed
over the dying man, asking that all the past might
be forgiven, and that the erring might rest at last
in peace.

“Say Amen for me, I’m too weak,”
the doctor whispered; then, as reason asserted her
sway again, he continued: “I see it now;
Lily’s gone, and I am dying here in the woods,
in the dark, in the night, on the ground; cared for
by you who will be Lily’s husband. You may,
you may tell her I said so; tell her kiss my boy;
love him, Major Stanley; love him as your own, even
though others shall call you father. Tell her—­I
tried—­to pray—­”

He never spoke again; and when next the thick, black,
clotted blood oozed up from the gaping wound, it brought
with it all there was of life; and there in those
Virginia woods, in the darkness of the night, Irving
Stanley sat alone with the dead. And yet not alone,
for away to his right, and where the neigh of a horse
had been heard, another wounded soldier lay—­his
soft, brown locks moist with dew, and his captain’s
uniform wet with the blood which dripped from the terrible
gash in the fleshy part of the neck, where a murderous
ball had been. One arm, the right one, was broken,
and lay disabled upon the grass; while the hand of
the other clutched occasionally at the damp grass,
and then lifting itself, stroked caressingly the powerful
limbs of the faithful creature standing guard over
the prostrate form of his master.

Hugh and Rocket! They had been in many battles,
and neither shot nor shell had harmed them until to-day,
when Hugh had received the charge which sent him reeling
from his horse, breaking his arm in the field, and
scarcely conscious that two of his comrades were leading
him from the field. How or by what means he afterward
reached the woods, he did not know, but reach them
he had, and unable to travel farther, he had fallen
to the ground, where he lay, until Rocket came galloping
near, riderless, frightened, and looking for his master.
With a cry of joy the noble brute answered that master’s
faint whistle, bounding at once to his side, and by
many mute but meaning signs, signifying his desire
that Hugh should mount as heretofore.

But Hugh was too weak for that, and after several
ineffectual efforts to rise, fell back half fainting
on the turf; while Rocket took his stand directly
over him, a powerful and efficient guard until help
from some quarter should arrive. Patiently, faithfully
he stood, waiting as quietly as if he knew that aid
was coming, not far away, in the form of an old man,
whose hair was white as snow, and whose steps were
feeble with age, but who had the advantage of knowing
every inch of that ground, for he had trodden it many
a time, with a homesick heart which pined for “old
Kentuck,” whence he had been stolen.

Page 223

Uncle Sam! He it was whose uncertain steps made
Rocket prick up his ears and listen, neighing at last
a neigh of welcome, by which he, too, was recognized.

“De dear Father be praised if that be’nt
Rocket hisself. I’ve found him, I’ve
found my Massah Hugh. I tole Miss Ellis I should,
’case I knows all de way. Dear Massuh Hugh,
I’se Sam, I is,” and with a convulsive
sob the old negro knelt beside the white-faced man,
who but for this timely aid could hardly have survived
that fearful night.

CHAPTER XLVI

HOW SAM CAME THERE

It is more than a year now since last we looked upon
the inmates of Spring Bank, and during that time Kentucky
had been the scene of violence, murder, and bloodshed.
The roar of artillery had been heard upon its hills.
Soldiers wearing the Federal uniform had marched up
and down its beaten paths, encamping for a brief season
in its capital, and then departing to other points
where their services were needed more.

Morgan, with his fierce band of guerillas, had carried
terror, dismay, and sometimes death, to many a peaceful
home; while Harney, too, disdaining open, honorable
warfare, had joined himself, it was said, to a horde
of savage marauders, gathered, some from Texas, some
from Mississippi, and a few from Tennessee; but none,
to her credit be it said, none from Kentucky, save
their chief, the Rebel Harney, who despised and dreaded
almost equally by Unionist and Confederates, kept
the country between Louisville and Lexington in a constant
state of excitement.

At Spring Bank, well known as the home of stanch Unionists,
nothing as yet had been harmed, thanks to Alice’s
courage and vigilance, and the skill with which she
had not only taught herself to handle firearms, but
also taught the negroes, who, instead of running away,
as the Wendell Phillips men of the North seem to believe
all negroes will do, only give them the chance, remained
firmly at their post, and nightly took turns in guarding
the house against any attack from the guerillas.

Toward Spring Bank Harney had a peculiar spite, and
his threats of violence had more than once reached
the ears of Alice, who wisely kept them from the nervous,
timid Mrs. Worthington. At her instigation, Aunt
Eunice had left her home in the cornfield, and come
to Spring Bank, so that the little garrison numbered
four white women, including crazy Densie, and twelve
negro servants.

As the storm grew blacker, it had seemed necessary
for Colonel Tiffton openly to avow his sentiments,
and not “sneak between two fires, for fear of
being burned,” as Harney wolfishly told him one
day, taunting him with being a “villainous Yankee,”
and hinting darkly of the punishment preparing for
all such.

The colonel was not cowardly, but as was natural he
did lean to the Confederacy. “Peaceful
separation, if possible,” was his creed; and
fully believing the South destined to triumph, he took
that side at last, greatly to the delight of his high-spirited
Nell, who had been a Rebel from the first. The
inmates of Spring Bank, however, were not forgotten
by the colonel, and regularly each morning he rode
over to see if all were safe, sometimes sending there
at night one or two of his own field hands as body
guard to Alice, whose courage and intrepidity in defending
her side of the question he greatly admired.

Page 224

One night, near the middle of summer, Jake, a burly
negro, came earlier than usual, and seeking Alice,
thrust into her hand a note from Colonel Tiffton.
It read as follows:

“DEAR ALICE: I have a suspicion
that the villainous scamps, headed by Harney, mean
to steal horses from Spring Bank to-night, hoping
by that means to engage you in a bit of a fight.
In short, Harney was heard to say, ’I’ll
have every horse from Spring Bank before to-morrow
morning; and if that Yankee miss appears to dispute
my claim, as I trust she will, I’ll have her,
too;’ and then the bully laid a wager that
‘Major Alice,’ as he called you, would
be his prisoner in less than forty-eight hours.

“I hope it is not true, but if he
does come, please keep quietly in the house, and
let him take every mother’s son of a horse.
I shall be around watching, but hanged if it will
do to identify myself with you as I wish to do.
They’d shoot me like a dog.”

To say that Alice felt no fear would be false.
There was a paling of the cheek and a sinking of the
heart as she thought of what the fast-falling night
might bring. But her trust was not in her own
strength, and dismissing Jake from her presence, she
bent her face upon the piano lid and prayed most earnestly
to be delivered from the approaching peril, to know
just what to do, and how to act; then summoning the
entire household to the large sitting-room, she explained
to them what she had heard, and asked what they must
do.

“Shall we lock ourselves inside the house and
let them have the horses, or shall we try to keep
them?”

It took a few minutes for the negroes to recover from
their fright, and when they had done so Claib was
the first to speak.

“Please, Miss Ellis, Massa Hugh’s last
words to me was: ’Mind, boy, you takes
good keer of de hosses.’ Massa Hugh sot
store by dem. He not stay quiet in de chimbly
corner and let Sudden ’Federacy stole ’em.”

“Dem’s my theology, Miss Ellis,”
chimed in Uncle Sam, rising and standing in the midst
of the dark group assembled near the door. “I’se
for savin’ de horses.”

“An’ I’se for shootin’ Harney,”
interrupted the little Mug, her eyes flashing, and
her nostrils dilating as she continued: “I
knows it’s wicked, but I hates him, an’
I never tole you how I seen him in de woods one day,
an’ he axes me ’bout my Miss and Mars’r
Hugh—­did they writ often, an’ was
they kinder sparkin’? I told him none of
his bizness, and cut and run, but he bawl after me
and say how’t he steal Miss Ellis some night
and make her be his wife. I flung a rock at him,
big rock, too, and cut again. Ugh!”

Page 225

Mug’s face, expressive as it was, only reflected
the feelings of the others and Alice’s decision
was taken. They would protect Hugh’s horses.
But how? That was a perplexing question until
Mug suggested that they be brought into the kitchen,
which adjoined the house, and was much larger than
Southern kitchens usually are. It was a novel
idea, but seemed the only feasible one, and was acted
upon at once. The kitchen, however, would not
accommodate the dozen noble animals, Claib’s
special pride, and so the carpet was taken from the
dining-room floor, and before the clock struck ten
every horse was stabled in the house, where they stood
as quietly as if they, too, felt the awe, the expectancy
of something terrible brooding over the household.

It was Alice who managed everything, giving directions
where each one of her subordinates was to stay, and
what they were to do in case of an attack. Every
door and window was barricaded, every possible precaution
taken, and then, with an unflinching nerve, Alice stole
up the stairs, and unfastening a trapdoor which led
out upon the roof, stood there behind a huge chimney
top, scanning wistfully the darkness of the woods,
waiting, watching for a foe, whose very name was in
itself sufficient to blanch a woman’s cheek
with fear.

“Oh, what would Hugh say, if he could see me
now?” she murmured, a tear starting to her eye
as she thought of the dear soldier afar in the tented
field, and wondered if he had forgotten his love for
her, as she sometimes feared, or why, in his many
letters, he never breathed a word of aught save brotherly
affection.

She was his mother’s amanuensis, and as she
could not follow her epistles, and see how, ere breaking
the seal, Hugh’s lips were always pressed to
the place where her fingers had traced his name, she
did not guess how precious they were to him, or how
her words of counsel and sympathy kept him often from
temptations, and were molding him so fast into the
truly consistent Christian man she so much wished him
to be. He had in one letter, expressed his surprise
that she did not go to Europe, while she had replied
to him: “I never thought of going;”
and this was all the allusion either had made to Irving
Stanley since the day that Hugh left Spring Bank.
Gradually, however, the conviction had crept over
Hugh that in his jealousy he acted hastily, that Irving
Stanley had sued for Alice’s hand in vain, but
he would not seek an explanation yet; he would do
his duty as a soldier, and when that duty was done,
he might, perhaps, be more worthy of Alice’s
love. He would have had no doubt of it now could
he have seen her that summer night, and known her thoughts
as she stood patiently at her post, now starting with
a sudden flutter of fear, as what she had at first
taken for the distant trees seemed to assume a tangible
form; and again laughing at her own weakness, as the
bristling bayonets subsided into sleeping shadows beneath
the forest boughs.

Page 226

“Miss Ellis, did you hear dat ar?” came
in a whisper from the opening of the roof, and with
a suppressed scream Alice recognized Muggins, who had
followed her young mistress, and for the last half
hour had been poising herself, first on one foot and
then upon the other, as she stood upon the topmost
narrow stairs, with her woolly head protruding just
above the roof, and her cat-like ears listening for
some sound.

“How came you here?” Alice asked, and
Mug replied:

“I thinks dis the best place to fire at Mas’r
Harney. Mug’s gwine to take aim, fire,
bang, so,” and the queer child illustrated by
holding up a revolver which she had used more than
once under Alice’s supervision, and with which
she had armed herself.

Alice could not forbear a smile, but it froze on her
lips, as clutching her dress Mug whispered:

“Dar they comes,” pointing at the same
time toward the woods where a band of men was distinctly
visible, marching directly upon Spring Bank.

“Will I bang ’em now?” Mug asked,
but Alice stopped her with a sign, and leaning against
the chimney, stood watching the advancing foe, who,
led by Harney, made straight for the stables, their
suppressed voices reaching her where she stood, as
did their oaths and imprecations when they found their
booty gone.

There was a moment’s consultation and then Harney,
dismounting, came into the yard and seemed to be inspecting
the dark, silent building, which gave no sign of life.

“We’ll try the cabins first. We’ll
make the negroes tell where the horses are,”
Alice heard him say, but the cabins were as empty as
the stalls, and in some perplexity Harney gave orders
for them to see, “if the old rookery were vacant
too.”

“Mr. Harney, may I ask why you are here?”

The clear, silvery tones rang out on the still night
and startled that guerilla band almost as much as
would a shell dropped suddenly in their midst.
Looking in the direction whence the voice had come
they saw the girlish figure clearly defined upon the
housetop, and one, a burly, brutal Texan, raised his
gun, but Harney struck it down, and involuntarily
lifting his cap, replied:

“We are here for horses, Miss Johnson.
We know Mr. Worthington keeps the best in the country,
and as we need some, we have come to take possession,
peaceably if possible, forcibly if need be. Can
you tell us where they are?”

“I can,” and Alice’s voice did not
tremble a particle. “They are safely housed
in the kitchen and dining-room and the doors are barred.”

“The fair Alice will please unbar them,”
was Harney’s sneering reply, to which came back
the answer: “The horses are not yours; they
are Captain Worthington’s, and we will defend
them, if need be, with our lives!”

“Gritty, by George! I didn’t know
as Yankee gals, had such splendid pluck,” muttered
one of the men, while Harney continued: “You
say ‘we.’ May I ask the number of
your forces?”

Page 227

Ere Alice could speak old Sam’s voice was heard
parleying with the marauders.

“That’s a nigger, shoot him!” growled
one, but the white head was withdrawn from view just
in time to escape the ball aimed at it.

There was a rush, now for the kitchen door, a horrid
sound of fearful oaths, mingled with the cries of
the negroes, the furious yells of Rover, whom Lulu
had let loose, and the neighing of the frightened
steeds. But amid it all Alice retained her self-possession.
She had descended from her post on the housetop, and
persuading Mrs. Worthington, Aunt Eunice, and Densie
to remain quietly in her own room, joined the negroes
below, cheering them by her presence, and by her apparent
fearlessness keeping up their sinking courage.

“I’ll try argument first with their leader,”
Alice replied, and ere Claib suspected her intention
she was undoing the fastenings of a side door, bidding
him bolt it after her as soon as she was safely through
it.”

“Is Miss Ellis crazy?” shrieked Sam.
“Dem men has no ’spect for female wimmen,”
and he was forcibly detaining her, when the sharp ring
of a revolver was heard, accompanied by a demoniacal
shriek as a tall body leaped high in the air and then
fell, weltering in its blood.

A moment more and a little dusky figure came flying
down the stairs, and hiding itself behind the astonished
Alice, sobbed hysterically: “I’se
done it, I has! I’se shooted old Harney!”
and Mug, overcome with excitement, rolled upon the
floor like an India rubber ball.

It was true, as Mug had said. Secreted by the
huge chimney she had watched the proceedings below,
keeping her eye fixed on him she knew to be Harney;
and, at last, when a favorable opportunity occurred,
had sent the ball which carried death to him and dismay
to his adherents, who crowded around their fallen
leader, forgetful now of the prey for which they had
come, and anxious only for flight. Possibly, too,
their desire to be off was augmented by the fact that
from the woods came the sound of voices and the tramp
of horses’ feet—­Colonel Tiffton, who,
with a few of his neighbors, was coming to the rescue
of Spring Bank. But their services were not needed
to drive away the foe, for ere they reached the gate,
the yard was free from the invaders, who, bearing their
wounded leader, Harney, in their midst, disappeared
behind the hill, one of them, the brutal Texan, who
had raised his gun at Alice, lingering behind the
rest, and looking back to see the result of his infernal
deed. Secretly, when no one knew it, he had kindled
a fire at the rear of the wooden building, which being
old and dry caught readily, and burned like tinder.

Page 228

Alice was the first to discover it, and “Fire!
fire!” was echoed frantically from one to the
other, while all did their best to subdue it.
But their efforts were in vain; nothing could stay
its progress, and when the next morning’s sun
arose it shone on the blackened, smoking ruins of
Spring Bank, and on the tearful group standing near
to what had been their happy home. The furniture
mostly had been saved, and was scattered about the
yard just where it had been deposited. There had
been some parley between the negroes as to which should
be left to burn, the old secretary at the end of the
upper hall, or a bureau which stood in an adjoining
and otherwise empty room.

“Massah done keep his papers here. We’ll
take dis,” Claib had said, and so, assisted
by other negroes and Mug, he had carried the old worm-eaten
thing down the stairs, and bearing it across the yard,
had dropped it rather suddenly, for it was wondrously
heavy, and the sweat stood in great drops on the faces
of the blacks, as they deposited the load and turned
away so quickly as not to see the rotten bottom splintering
to pieces, or the yellow coin dropping upon the grass.

Making the circuit of the yard in company with Colonel
Tiffton, Alice’s eye was caught by the flashing
of something beneath the bookcase, and stooping down
she uttered a cry of surprise as she picked up and
held to view a golden guinea. Another, and another,
and another—­they were thick as berries
on the hills, and in utter amazement she turned to
the equally astonished colonel for an explanation.
It cams to him after a little. That bookcase,
with its false bottom and secret drawers, had been
the hiding place of the miserly John Stanley’s
gold. In his will, he had spoken of that particularly,
bidding Hugh be careful of it, as it had come to him
from his grandfather, and this was the result.
What had been a mystery to the colonel was explained.
He knew what John Stanley had done with all his money,
and that Hugh Worthington’s poverty was now
a thing of the past.

“I’m glad of it—­the boy deserves
this streak of luck, if ever a fellow did,”
he said, as he made his rapid explanations to Alice,
who listened like one bewildered, while all the time
she was gathering up the golden coin, which kept dropping
from the sides and chinks of the bookcase.

There was quite a little fortune, and Alice suggested
that it should be kept a secret for the present from
all save Mrs. Worthington, a plan to which the colonel
assented, helping Alice to recover and secrete her
treasure, and then going with her to Mrs. Worthington,
who sat weeping silently over the ruins of her home.

“Poor Hugh, we are beggars now,” she moaned,
refusing at first to listen to Alice’s attempts
at consolation.

They told her at last what they had found, proving
their words by occular demonstration, and proposing
to her that the story should go no further until Hugh
had been consulted.

Page 229

“You’ll go home with me, of course,”
the colonel said, “and then we’ll see
what must be done.”

This seemed the only feasible arrangement, and the
family carriage was brought around to take the ladies
to Mosside—­the negroes, whose cabins had
not been burned, staying at Spring-Bank to watch the
fire, and see that it spread no farther. But
Alice could not remain in quietness at Mosside, and
early the next morning she rode down to Spring Bank,
where the negroes greeted her with loud cries of welcome,
asking her numberless questions as to what they were
to do, and who would go after “Massah Hugh.”

It seemed to be the prevailing opinion that he must
come home, and Alice thought so, too.

“What do you think, Uncle Sam?” she asked,
turning to the old man, who replied:

“I thinks a heap of things, and if Miss Ellis
comes dis way where so many can’t be listen
in’, I tella her my mind.”

Alice followed him to a respectable distance from
the others, and sitting down upon a chair standing
there, waited for Sam to begin.

Twirling his old straw hat awkwardly for a moment,
he stammered out:

“What for did Massah Hugh jine de army?”

“Because he thought it his duty,” was
Alice’s reply, and Sam continued:

“Yes, but dar is anodder reason. ’Scuse
me, miss, but I can’t keep still an’ see
it all agwine wrong. ’Seuse me ’gin,
miss, but is you ever gwine to hev that chap what
comed here oncet a sparkin’—­Massah
Irving, I means?”

Alice’s blue eyes turned inquiringly upon him,
as she replied: “Never, Uncle Sam.
I never intended to marry him. Why do you ask?”

“’Cause, miss, when a young gal lets her
head lay spang on a fellow’s buzzum, and he
a kissin’ her, it looks mighty like somethin’.
Yes, berry like;” and in his own way Sam confessed
what he had seen more than a year ago, and told, too,
how Hugh had overheard the words of love breathed
by Irving Stanley, imitating, as far as possible, his
master’s manner as he turned away, and walked
hurriedly down the piazza.

Then he confessed what, in the evening, he had repeated
to Hugh, telling Alice how “poor massah groan,
wid face in his hands, and how next day he went off,
never to come back again.”

In mute silence, Alice listened to a story which explained
much that had been strange to her before, and as she
listened, her resolve was made.

“Sam,” she said, when he had finished,
“I wish I had known this before. It might
have saved your master much anxiety. I am going
North—­going to Snowdon first, and then
to Washington, in hopes of finding him.”

Page 230

Alice could not promise till she had talked with Mrs.
Worthington, whose anxiety to go North was even greater
than her own. They would be nearer to Hugh, and
by going to Washington would probably see him, she
said, while it seemed that she should by some means
be brought near to her daughter, of whom no tidings
had been received as yet. So it was arranged
that Mrs. Worthington, Alice and Densie, together with
Lulu and Sam, should start at once for Snowdon, where
Alice would leave a part of her charge, herself and
Mrs. Worthington going on to Washington in hopes of
meeting or hearing directly from Hugh. Aunt Eunice
and Mug were to remain with Colonel Tiffton, who promised
to look after the Spring Bank negroes.

Accordingly, one week after the fire, Alice found
herself at the same station in Lexington where once
Hugh Worthington, to her unknown, had waited for her
coming. The morning papers were just out, and
securing one for herself, she entered the car and
read the following announcement:

“DIED, at his country residence,
from the effect of a shot received
while dastardly attacking a house belonging
to Unionists, Robert
Harney, Esq., aged thirty-three.”

With a shudder Alice pointed out the paragraph to
Mrs. Worthington, and laying her head upon her hand
prayed silently that there might come a speedy end
to the horrors entailed by the cruel war.

CHAPTER XLVII

FINDING HUGH

Sweet Anna Millbrook’s eyes were dim with tears,
and her heart was sore with pain when told that Alice
Johnson, was waiting for her in the parlor below.
Only the day before had she heard of her brother’s
disgrace, feeling as she heard it, how much rather
she would that he had died ere there were so many
stains upon his name. But Alice would comfort
her, and she hastened to meet her. Sitting down
beside her, she talked with her long of all that had
transpired since last they met; talked, too, of Adah,
and then of Willie, who was sent for, and at Alice’s
request taken by her to the hotel, where Mrs. Worthington
was stopping. He had grown to be a most beautiful
and engaging child, and Mrs. Worthington justly felt
a thrill of pride as she clasped him to her bosom,
weeping over him passionately. She could scarcely
bear to lose him from her sight, and when later in
the day Anna came down for him, she begged hard for
him to stay. But Willie was rather shy of his
new grandmother, and preferred returning with Mrs.
Millbrook, who promised that he should come every
day so long as Mrs. Worthington remained at the hotel.

As soon as Mrs. Richards learned that Mrs. Worthington
and Alice were in town, she insisted upon their coming
to Terrace Hill. There was room enough, she said,
and her friends were welcome there for as long a time
as they chose to stay. There were the pleasant
chambers fitted up for ’Lina, they had never
been occupied, and Mrs. Worthington could have them
as well as not; or better yet—­could take
Anna’s old chamber, with the little room adjoining,
where Adah used to sleep. Mrs. Worthington preferred
the latter, and removed with Alice at Terrace Hill,
while at Anna’s request Densie went to the Riverside
Cottage, where she used to live, and where she was
much happier than she would have been with strangers.

Page 231

Not long could Mrs. Worthington stay contentedly at
Snowdon, and after a time Alice started with her and
Lulu for Washington, taking Sam also, partly because
he begged so hard to go, and partly because she did
not care to trouble her friends with the old man,
who seemed a perfect child in his delight at the prospect
of seeing “Massah Hugh.” But to see
him was not so easy a matter. Indeed, he seemed
farther off at Washington than he had done at Spring
Bank, and Alice sometimes questioned the propriety
of having left Kentucky at all. They were not
very comfortable at Washington, and as Mrs. Worthington
pined for the pure country air, Alice managed at last
to procure board for herself, Mrs. Worthington, Lulu
and Sam, at the house of a friend whose acquaintance
she had made at the time of her visit to Virginia.
It was some distance from Washington, and so near
to Bull Run that when at last the second disastrous
battle was fought in that vicinity, the roar of the
artillery was distinctly heard, and they who listened
to the noise of that bloody conflict knew just when
the battle ceased, and thought with tearful anguish
of the poor, maimed, suffering wretches left to bleed
and die alone. They knew Hugh must have been
in the battle, and Mrs. Washington’s anxiety
amounted almost to insanity, while Alice, with blanched
cheek and compressed lip, could only pray silently
that he might be spared, and might yet come back to
them. Only Sam thought of acting.

“Now is the time,” he said to Alice, as
they stood talking together of Hugh, and wondering
if he were safe. “Something tell me Massah
Hugh is hurted somewhar, and I’se gwine to find
him. I knows all de way, an’ every tree
around dat place. I can hide from de ’Federacy.
Dem Rebels let ole white-har’d nigger look for
young massah, and I’se gwine. P’raps
I not find him, but I does somebody some good.
I helps somebody’s Massah Hugh.”

It seemed a crazy project, letting that old man start
off on so strange an errand, but Sam was determined.

He had a “’sentiment,” as he said,
that Hugh was wounded, and he must go to him.

In his presentiment Alice had no faith; but she did
not oppose him, and at parting she said to him, hesitatingly:

“Sam, if you do find your master wounded, and
you think him dying, you may tell him—­tell
him—­that I said—­I loved him;
and had he ever come back, I would have been his wife.”

“I tells him, and that raises Massah Hugh from
de very jaws of death,” was Sam’s reply,
as he departed on his errand of mercy, which proved
not to be a fruitless one, for he did find his master,
and falling on his knees beside him, uttered the joyful
words we have before repeated.

To the faint, half-dying Hugh, it seemed more like
a dream than a reality—­that familiar voice
from home, and that dusky form bending over him so
pityingly. He could not comprehend how Sam came
there, or what he was saying to him. Something
he heard of burning houses, and ole miss and Snowdon,
and Washington; but nothing was real until he caught
the name of Alice, and thought Sam said she was there.

Page 232

“Where, Sam—­where?” he asked,
trying to raise himself upon his elbow. “Is
Alice here, did you say?”

“No, massah; not ’zactly here—­but
on de road. If massah could ride, Sam hold him
on, like massah oncet held on ole Sam, and we’ll
get to her directly. They’s kind o’
Secesh folks whar she is, but mighty good to her.
She knowed ’em ’fore, ’case way down
here is whar Sam was sold dat time Miss Ellis comed
and show him de road to Can’an. Miss Ellis
tell me somethin’ nice for Massah Hugh, ef he’s
dyin’—­suffin make him so glad.
Is you dyin’, massah?”

“I hardly think I am as bad as that. Can’t
you tell unless I am near to death?” Hugh said;
and Sam replied:

“That’s exactly my case, so you may venture
to tell,” Hugh said; and getting his face close
to that of the young man, Sam whispered: “She
say, ‘Tell Massah Hugh—­I—­I—­’
You’s sure you’s dyin’?”

“I’m sure I feel as you said I must,”
Hugh, continued, and Sam went on: “‘Tell
him I loves him; and ef he lives I’ll be his
wife.’ Dem’s her very words, nigh
as I can ‘member—­but what is massah
goin’ to do?” he continued in some surprise,
as Hugh attempted to rise.

“Do? I’m going to Alice,” was
Hugh’s reply, as with a moan he sank back again,
too weak to rise alone.

“Then you be’nt dyin’, after all,”
was Sam’s rueful comment, as he suggested:
“Ef massah only clamber onto Rocket.”

This was easier proposed than done, but after several
trials Hugh succeeded; and, with Sam steadying him,
while he half lay on Rocket’s neck, Hugh proceeded
slowly and safely through the woods, meeting at last
with some Unionists, who gave him what aid they could,
and did not leave him until they saw him safely deposited
in an ambulance, which, in spite of his entreaties,
took him direct to Georgetown. It was a bitter
disappointment to Hugh, so bitter, indeed, that he
scarcely felt the pain when his broken arm was set;
and when, at last, he was left alone in his narrow
hospital bed, he turned his face to the wall and cried,
just as many a poor, homesick soldier had done before
him, and will do again.

Twenty-four hours had passed, and in Hugh’s
room it was growing dark again. All the day he
had watched anxiously the door through which visitors
would enter, asking repeatedly if no one had called
for him; but just as the sun was going down he fell
away to sleep, dreaming at last that Golden Hair was
there—­that her soft, white hands were on
his brow, her sweet lips pressed to his, while her
dear voice murmured softly: “Darling Hugh!”

Page 233

There was a cry of pain from a distant corner, and
Hugh awoke to consciousness—­awoke to know
it was no dream—­the soft hands on his brow,
the kiss upon his lips—­for Golden Hair was
there; and by the tears she dropped upon his face,
and the mute caresses she gave him, he knew that Sam
had told him truly. For several minutes there
was silence between them, while the eyes looked into
each other with a deeper meaning than words could
have expressed; then, smoothing back his damp brown
hair, and letting her fingers still rest upon his forehead,
Alice whispered to him: “Why did you distrust
me, Hugh? But for that we need not have been
separated so long.”

Winding his well arm around her neck, and drawing
her nearer to him, Hugh answered:

“It was best just as it is. Had I been
sure of your love, I should have found it harder to
leave home. My country needed me. I am glad
I have done what I could to defend it. Glad that
I joined the army, for Alice, darling, Golden Hair,
in my lonely tent reading that little Bible you gave
me so long ago, the Savior found me, and now, whether
I live or not, it is well, for if I die, I am sure
you will be mine in heaven; and if I live—­”

Alice finished the sentence for him.

“If you live, God willing, I shall be your wife.
Dear Hugh, I bless the Good Father, first for bringing
you to Himself, and then restoring you to me, darling
Hugh.”

CHAPTER XLVIII

GOING HOME

The Village hearse was waiting at Snowdon depot, and
close beside it stood the carriage from Terrace Hill;
the one sent there for Adah, the other for her husband,
whose lifeblood, so freely shed, had wiped away all
stains upon his memory, and enshrined him in the hearts
of Snowdon’s people as a martyr. He was
the first dead soldier returned to them, his the first
soldier’s grave in their churchyard; and so a
goodly throng were there, with plaintive fife and
muffled drum, to do him honor. His major was
coming with him, it was said—­Major Stanley,
who had himself been found, in a half-fainting condition
watching by the dead—­Major Stanley, who
had seen that the body was embalmed, had written to
the wife, and had attended to everything, even to
coming on himself by way of showing his respect.
Death is a great softener of errors; and the village
people, who could not remember a time when they had
not disliked John Richards, forgot his faults now
that he was dead.

It seemed a long-time-waiting for the train, but it
came at last, and the crowd involuntarily made a movement
forward, and then drew back as a tall figure appeared
upon the platform, his stylish uniform betokening
an officer of rank, and his manner showing plainly
that he was master of ceremonies.

Page 234

“Major Stanley,” ran in a whisper through
the crowd, whose wonder increased when another, and,
if possible, a finer-looking man, emerged into view,
his right arm in a sling, and his face pale and worn,
from the effects of recent illness. He had not
been expected, and many curious glances were cast
at him as, slowly descending the steps, he gave his
well hand to the lady following close behind, Mrs.
Worthington; they knew her, and recognized also the
two young ladies, Alice and Adah, as they sprang from
the car. Poor Adah! how she shrank from the public
gaze, shuddering as on her way to the carriage she
passed the long box the men were handling so carefully.

Summoned by Irving Stanley, she had come on to Washington
to meet, not a living husband, but a husband dead,
and while there had learned that Mrs. Worthington,
Hugh, and Alice were all in Georgetown, whither she
hastened at once, eager to meet the mother whom she
had never yet met as such. Immediately after
the discovery of her parentage, she had written to
Kentucky, but the letter had not reached its destination,
consequently no one but Hugh knew how near she was;
and he had only learned it a few days before the battle,
when he had, by accident, a few moments’ conversation
with Dr. Richards, whom he had purposely avoided.
He was talking of Adah, and the practicability of sending
for her, when she arrived at the private boarding
house to which he had been removed.

The particulars of that interview between the mother
and her daughter we cannot describe, as no one witnessed
it save God; but Adah’s face was radiant with
happiness, and her soft, brown eyes beaming with joy
when it was ended, and she went next to where Hugh
was waiting for her.

“Oh, Hugh, my noble brother!” was all
she could say, as she wound her arms around his neck
and pressed her fair cheek against his own, forgetting,
in those moments of perfect bliss, all the sorrow,
all the anguish of the past.

Nor was it until Hugh said to her: “The
doctor was in that battle. Did he escaped unharmed?”
that a shadow dimmed the sunshine flooding her pathway
that autumn morning.

At the mention of him the muscles about her mouth
grew rigid, and a look of pain flitted across her
face, showing that there was yet much of bitterness
mingled in her cup of joy. Composing herself as
soon as possible she told Hugh that she was a widow,
but uttered no word of complaint against the dead,
and Hugh, knowing that she could not sorrow as other
women have sorrowed over the loved ones slain in battle,
drew her nearer to him, and after speaking a few words
of poor ’Lina, told her of the golden fortune
which had so unexpectedly come to him, and added:
“And you shall share it with me. Your home
shall be with me and Golden Hair—­Alice—­who
has promised to be my wife. We will live very
happily together yet, my sister.”

Then he asked what Major Stanley’s plan was
concerning the body of her husband, and upon learning
that it was to bury the doctor at home, he announced
his determination to accompany them, as he knew he
should be able to do so.

Page 235

Hugh had no suspicion of the truth, but Alice guessed
it readily, and could scarcely forbear throwing her
arms around Adah’s neck and whispering to her
how glad she was. She had said to her softly:
“I am to be your sister, Adah—­are
you willing to receive me?” and Adah had only
answered by a warm pressure of the hand she held in
hers and by the tears which shone in her brown eyes.

It was a great trial to Adah to face the crowd they
found assembled at the depot, but Irving, Hugh, and
Alice all helped to screen her from observation, and
almost before she was aware of it she found herself
safe in the carriage which effectually hid her from
view. Slowly the procession moved through the
village, the foot passengers keeping time to the muffled
drum, whose solemn beats had never till that morning
been heard in the quiet streets. The wide gate
which led into the grounds of Terrace Hill was opened
wide, and the black hearse passed in, followed by
the other carriages, which wound around the hill and
up to the huge building where badges of mourning were
hung out—­mourning for the only son, the
youngest born, the once pride and pet of the stately
woman who watched the coming of that group with tear-dimmed
eyes, holding upon her lap the little boy whose father
they were bringing in, dead, coffined for the grave.
Not for the world would that high-bred woman have been
guilty of an impropriety, and so she sat in her own
room, while Charlie Millbrook met the bearers in the
hall and told them where to deposit their burden.

In the same room where we first saw him on the night
of his return from Europe, they left him, and went
their way, while to Dixson and Pamelia was accorded
the honor of first welcoming Adah, whom they treated
with as much deference as if she had never been with
them in any capacity save that of mistress. She
had changed since they last saw her—­was
wonderfully improved, they said to each other as they
left her at the door of the room, where Mrs. Richards,
with her two older daughters, was waiting to receive
her. But if the servants were struck with the
air of dignity and cultivation which Adah acquired
during her tour in Europe, how much more did this
same air impress the haughty ladies waiting for her
appearance, and feeling a little uncertain as to how
they should receive her. Any doubts, however,
which they had upon this subject were dispelled the
moment she entered the room, and they saw at a glance
that it was not the timid, shrinking Rose Markham
with whom they had to deal, but a woman as wholly
self-possessed as themselves, and one with whose bearing
even their critical eyes would find no fault.
She would not suffer them to patronize her; they must
treat her fully as an equal or as nothing, and with
a new-born feeling of pride in her late son’s
widow, Mrs. Richards arose, and putting Willie from
her lap, advanced to meet her, cordially extending
her hand, but uttering no word of welcome. Adah
took the hand, but her eyes never sought the face of
her lady mother. They were riveted with a hungry,
wistful, longing look on Willie, the little boy, who,
clinging to his grandmother’s skirts, peered
curiously at her, holding back at first, when, unmindful
of Asenath and Eudora, who had not yet been greeted,
she tried to take him in her arms.

Page 236

“Oh, Willie, darling, don’t you know me?
I am poor mamma,” and Adah’s voice was
choked with sobs at this unlooked-for reception from
her child.

He had been sent for from Anna’s home to meet
his mother, because it was proper; but no one at Terrace
Hill had said to him that the mamma for whom sweet
Anna taught him daily to pray was coming. She
was not in his mind, and as eighteen months had obliterated
all memories of the gentle, girlish creature he once
knew as mother, he could not immediately identify
that mother with the lady before him.

It was a sad disappointment to Adah, and without knowing
what she was doing, she sank down upon the sofa, and
involuntarily laying her head in Mrs. Richards’
lap, cried bitterly, her tears bringing answering ones
from the eyes of all three of the ladies, for they
half believed her grief, in part, was for the lifeless
form in the room below.

“Poor child, you are tired and worn. It
is hard to lose him just as there was a prospect of
perfect reconciliation with us all,” Mrs. Richards
said, softly smoothing the brown tresses lying on her
lap, and thinking even then that curls were more becoming
to her daughter-in-law than braids had been, but wondering
why, now she was in mourning, Adah had persisted in
wearing them.

“Pretty girl, pretty turls, is you tyin’?”
and won by her distress, Willie drew near, and laid
his baby hand upon the curls he thought so pretty.

The child could not resist the face which, lifting
itself up, looked eagerly at him, and he put up his
little hands for Adah to take him, returning the kisses
she showered upon him and clinging to her neck, while
he said:

“Is you mam-ma sure? I prays for mam-ma—­God
take care of her, and pa-pa too. He’s dead.
They brought him back with a dum. Poor pa-pa,
Willie don’t want him dead;” and the little
lip began to quiver.

Never before since she knew she was a widow had Adah
felt so vivid a sensation of something akin to affection
for the dead, as when her child and his mourned so
plaintively for papa; and the tears which now fell
like rain were not for Willie alone, but were given
rather to the dead.

“Mrs. Richards has not yet greeted us,”
Asenath said; and turning to her at once, Adah apologized
for her seeming neglect, pressing both her and Eudora’s
hands more cordially than she would have done a few
moments before.

“Where is Anna?” she asked; and Mrs. Richards
replied:

“She’s sick. She regretted much that
she could not come up here to-day;” while Willie,
standing in Adah’s lap, with his chubby arm around
her neck, chimed in.

“You don’t know what we’ve dot.
We’ve dot ’ittle baby, we has.”

Adah knew now why Anna was absent, and why Charlie
Millbrook looked so happy when at last he came in
to see her, delivering sundry messages from his Anna,
who, he said could scarcely wait to see her dear sister.
There was something genuine in Charlie’s greeting,
something which made Adah feel as if she were indeed
at home, and she wondered much how even the Richards
race could ever have objected to him, as she watched
his movements and heard him talking with his stately
mother.

Page 237

“Yes, Major Stanley came,” he said, in
reply to her questions, and Adah was glad it was put
to him, for the blushes dyed her cheek at once, and
she bent over Willie to hide them, while Charlie continued:
“Captain Worthington came, too, Adah’s
brother, you know. He was in the same battle
with the doctor, was wounded rather seriously and has
been discharged, I believe.”

“Oh,” and Mrs. Richards seemed quite interested
now, asking where the young men were, and appearing
disappointed when told that, after waiting a few moments
in hopes of seeing the ladies, they had returned to
the hotel, where Mrs. Worthington and Alice were stopping.

“I fully expected the ladies here; pray, send
for them at once,” she said, but Adah interposed:

“Her mother would not willingly be separated
from Hugh, and as he of course would remain at the
hotel, it would be useless to think of persuading
Mrs. Worthington to come to Terrace Hill.”

“But Miss Johnson surely will come,” persisted
Mrs. Richards.

Adah could not explain then that Alice was less likely
to leave Hugh than her mother, but she said:
“Miss Johnson, I think, will not leave mother
alone,” and so the matter was settled.

It was a terribly long day to Adah, for Mrs. Richards
and her daughter kept their darkened room, seeing
no one who called, and appearing shocked when Adah
stole out from their presence, and taking Willie with
her, sought the servants’ sitting-room, where
the atmosphere was not so laden with restraint.
Once the elder lady rang for Pamelia, asking where
Mrs. Richards was, and looking a little distressed
when told she was in the garden playing with Willie.

“Why, do you want her?” was Pamelia’s
blunt inquiry, to which her mistress responded with
an aggrieved sigh:

“No-o, only I thought perhaps she was with her
dead husband; but, poor thing, it is not her nature,
I presume, to take it much to heart.”

Pamelia didn’t believe she did “take it
much to heart.” Indeed, she didn’t
see how she could, but she said nothing, and Adah was
left to play with Willie until Alice was announced
as being in the reception-room. She had driven
around, she said, to call on Mrs. Richards, and after
that take Adah with her to the cottage, where Anna,
she knew, was anxious to receive her. At first
Mrs. Richards demurred, fearing it would be improper,
but saying: “my late son’s wife is,
of course, her own mistress, and can do as she likes.”

Very adroitly Alice waived all objections, and bore
Adah off in triumph.

“I knew you must be lonely up there,”
she said, as they drove slowly along, “and there
can be no harm in visiting one’s sick sister.”

Anna surely did not think there was, as her warm,
welcoming kisses fully testified.

“I wanted so much to see you to-day,”
she said, “that I have worked myself into quite
a fever; but knowing mother as I do, I feared she
might not sanction your coming;” then proudly
turning down the blanket, she disclosed the red-faced
baby, who, just one week ago, had come to the Riverside
Cottage.

Page 238

“Isn’t he a beauty?” she asked,
pressing her lips upon the wrinkled forehead.
“A boy, too, and looks so much like Charlie,
but—­” and her soft, blue eyes seemed
more beautiful than ever with the maternal love-shining
for them, “I shall not call him Charlie, nor
yet John, though mother’s heart is set on the
latter name. I can’t. I loved my brother
dearly, and never so much as now that he is dead, but
my baby boy must not bear his name, and so I have
chosen Hugh, Hugh Richards. I know it will please
you both,” and she glanced archly at Alice, who
blushingly kissed the little boy who was to bear the
name dearest to her of all others.

Hugh—­they talked of him a while, and then
Anna spoke of Irving Stanley, expressing her fears
that she could not see him to thank him for his kindness
and forbearance to her erring brother.

“He must be noble and good,” she said,
then turning to Adah, she continued: “You
were with him a year. You must know him well.
Do you like him?”

“Yes,” and Adah’s face was all ablaze,
as the simple answer dropped from her lips.

For a moment Anna regarded her intently, then her
eyes were withdrawn and her white hand beat the counterpane
softly, but nothing more was said of Irving Stanley
then.

The next day near the sunsetting, they buried the
dead soldier, Mrs. Richards and Adah standing side
by side as the body was lowered to its last resting
place, the older leaning upon the younger for support,
and feeling as she went back to her lonely home and
heard the merry laugh of little Willie in the hall
that she was glad her son had married the young girl,
who, now that John was gone forever from her sight
began to be very dear to her as his wife, the Lily
whom he had loved so much. In the dusky twilight
of that night when alone with Adah she told her as
much, speaking sadly of the past, which she regretted,
and wishing she had never objected to receiving the
girl about whom John wrote so lovingly.

“Had I done differently he might have been living
now, and you might have been spared much pain, but
you’ll forgive me. I’m an old woman,
I am breaking fast, and soon shall follow my boy,
but while I live I wish for peace, and you must love
me, Lily, because I was his mother. Let me call
you Lily, as he did,” and the hand of her who
had conceded so much rested entreatingly upon the
bowed head of the young girl beside her. There
was no acting there, Adah knew, and clasping the trembling
hand she involuntarily whispered:

“I will love you, mother, I will.”

“And stay with me, too?” Mrs. Richards
continued, her voice choked with the sobs she could
not repress, when she heard herself called mother by
the girl she had so wronged. “You will stay
with him, Lily. Anna is gone, my other daughters
are old. We are lonely in this great house.
We need somebody young to cheer our solitude, and
you will stay, as mistress, if you choose, or as a
petted, youngest daughter.”

Page 239

This was an unlooked for trial to Adah. She had
not dreamed of living there at Terrace Hill, when
Hugh and her own mother could make her so happy in
their home. But Adah had never consulted her own
happiness, and as she listened to the pleading tones
of the woman who surely had some heart, some noble
qualities, she felt that ’twas her duty to remain
there for a time at least, and so she replied at last:

“I expected to live with my own mother, but
for the present my home shall be here with you.”

“God bless you, darling,” and the proud
woman’s lips touched the fair cheek, while the
proud woman’s hand smoothed again the soft short
curls, pushing them back from the white brow, as she
murmured: “You are very beautiful, my child,
just as John said you were.”

It was hard for Adah to tell Mrs. Worthington that
she could not make one of the circle who would gather
around the home fireside Hugh was to purchase somewhere,
but she did at last, standing firmly by her decision
and saying in reply to her mother’s entreaties:
“It is my duty. They need me more than
you, who have both Hugh and Alice.”

Adah was right, so Hugh said, and Alice, too, while
Irving Stanley said nothing. He must have found
much that was attractive about the little town of
Snowdon, for he lingered there long after there was
not the least excuse for staying. He did not
go often to Terrace Hill, and when he did, he never
asked for Adah, but so long as he could see her on
the Sabbath days when, with the Richards’ family
she walked quietly up the aisle, her cheek flushing
when she passed him, and so long as he occasionally
met her at Mrs. Worthington’s rooms, or saw her
riding in the Richards’ carriage, so long was
he content to stay. But there came a time when
he must go, and then he asked for Adah, and in the
presence of her mother-in-law invited her to go with
him to her husband’s grave. She went, taking
Willie with her, and there, with that fresh mound between
them, Irving Stanley told her what he had hitherto
withheld, told what the dying soldier had said, and
asked if it should be so.

“Not now, not yet,” he continued, as Adah’s
eyes were bent upon that grave, “but by and
by, will you do your husband’s bidding—­be
my wife?”

“I will,” and taking Willie’s hand
Adah put it with hers into the broad, warm palm which
clasped them both, as Irving whispered: “Your
child, darling, shall be mine, and never need he know
that I am not his father.”

It was arranged that Alice should tell Mrs. Richards,
as Adah would have no concealments. Accordingly,
Alice asked a private interview with the lady, to
whom she told everything as she understood it.
And Mrs. Richards, though weeping bitterly, generously
exonerated Adah from all blame, commended her as having
acted very wisely, and then added, with a flush of
pride:

“Many a woman would be glad to marry Irving
Stanley, and it gives me pleasure to know that to
my son’s widow the honor is accorded. He
is worthy to take John’s place, and she, I believe,
is worthy of him. I love her already as my daughter,
and shall look upon him as a son. You say they
are in the garden. Let them both come to me.”

Page 240

They came, and listened quietly, while Mrs. Richards
sanctioned their engagement, and then, with a little
eulogy upon her departed son, said to Adah: “You
will wait a year, of course. It will not be proper
before.”

Irving had hoped for only six months’ probation,
but Adah was satisfied with the year, and they went
from Mrs. Richards’ presence with the feeling
that Providence was indeed smiling upon their pathway,
and flooding it with sunshine.

The next day Major Stanley left Snowdon, but not until
there had come to Hugh a letter, whose handwriting
made Mrs. Worthington turn pale, it brought back so
vividly the terror of the olden times. It was
from Murdock, and it inclosed for Densie Densmore
the sum of five hundred dollars.

“Should she need more, I will try and supply
it,” he wrote, “for I have wronged her
cruelly.” Then, after speaking of his fruitless
search for Adah, and his hearing at last that she
was found and Dr. Richards dead, he added: “As
there is nothing left for me to do, and as I am sure
to be playing mischief if idle, I have joined the
army, and am training a band of contrabands to fight
as soon as the government comes to its senses, and
is willing for the negroes to bear their part in the
battle.”

The letter ended with saying that he should never
come out of the war alive, simply because it would
last until he was too old to live any longer.

It was a relief for Mrs. Worthington to hear from
him, and know that he probably would not trouble her
again, while Adah, whose memories of him were pleasanter,
expressed a strong desire to see him.

“We will find him by and by, when you are mine,”
Irving said playfully; then, drawing her into an adjoining
room where they could be alone, he said his parting
words, and then with Hugh went to meet the train which
took him away from Snowdon.

CHAPTER XLIX

CONCLUSION

The New England hills were tinged with that peculiar
purplish haze so common to the Indian summer time,
and the warm sunlight of November fell softly upon
Snowdon, whose streets this morning were full of eager,
expectant people, all hurrying on to the old brick
church, and quickening their steps with every stroke
of the merry bell, pealing so joyfully from the tall,
dark tower. The Richards’ carriage was out,
and waiting before the door of the Riverside Cottage,
for the appearance of Anna, who was this morning to
venture out for a short time, and leaving her baby
Hugh alone. Another, and far handsomer carriage,
was standing before the hotel, where Hugh and his
mother were yet stopping, and where, in a pleasant
private room, Adah Richards helped Alice Johnson make
her neat, tasteful toilet, smoothing lovingly the rich
folds of grayish-colored silk, arranging the snowy
cuffs and collar, and then bringing the stylish hat
of brown Neapolitan, with its pretty face trimmings

Page 241

of blue, and declaring it a shame to cover up the curls
of golden hair falling so luxuriously about the face
and neck of the blushing bride. For it was Alice’s
wedding day, and in the room adjoining, Hugh Worthington
stood, waiting impatiently the opening of the mysterious
door which Adah had shut against him, and wondering
if, after all, it were not a dream that the time was
coming fast when neither bolts nor locks would have
a right to keep him from his wife.

It seemed too great a joy to be true, and by way of
reassuring himself he had to look often at the crowds
of people hurrying by, and down upon old Sam, who,
in full dress, with white cotton gloves drawn awkwardly
upon his cramped distorted fingers, stood by the carriage,
bowing to all who passed, himself the very personification
of perfect bliss. Sam was very happy, inasmuch
as he took upon himself the credit of having made
the match, and was never tired of relating the wondrous
story to all who would listen to it.

“Massah Hugh de perfectest massah,” he
said, “and Miss Ellis a little more so;”
adding that though “Canaan was a mighty nice
place, he ’sumed he’d rather not go thar
jist yet, but live a leetle longer to see them ’joy
themselves. Thar they comes—­dat’s
miss in gray. She knows how’t orange posies
and silks and satins is proper for weddin’ nights;
but she’s gwine travelin’, and dat’s
why she comed out in dat stun-color, Sam’ll
be blamed if he fancies.” And having thus
explained Alice’s choice of dress, the old negro
held the carriage door himself, while Hugh, handing
in his mother, sister and his bride, took his seat
beside them, and was driven to the church.

Twenty minutes passed, and then the streets were filled
again; but now the people were going home, talking
as they went of the beauty of the bride and of the
splendid-looking bridegroom, who looked so fondly at
her as she murmured her responses, kissing her first
himself when the ceremony was over, and letting his
arm rest for a moment around her slender form.
No one doubted its being a genuine love match, and
all rejoiced in the happiness of the newly-married
pair, who, at the village depot, were waiting for
the train which would take them on their way to Kentucky,
for that was their destination.

In the distracted condition of the country, Hugh’s
presence was needed there; for, taking advantage of
his absence, and the thousand rumors afloat touching
the Proclamation, one of his negroes had already run
away in company with some half dozen of the colonel’s,
who, in a terrible state of excitement, talked seriously
of emigrating to Canada. Hugh’s timely
arrival, however, quieted him somewhat, though he listened
in sorrow, and almost with tears, to Hugh’s plan
of selling the Spring Bank farm and removing with
his negroes to some New England town, where Alice,
he knew, would be happier than she had been in Kentucky.
This was one object which Hugh had in view in going
to Kentucky then, but a purchaser for Spring Bank
was not so easily found in those dark days; and so,
doing with his land the best he could, he called about
him his negroes, and giving to each his freedom, proposed
that they stay quietly where they were until spring,
when he hoped to find them all employment on the farm
he went to buy in New England.

Page 242

Aunt Eunice, who understood managing blacks better
than his timid mother or his inexperienced wife, was
to be his housekeeper in that new home of his, where
the colonel and his family would always be welcome;
and having thus provided for those for whom it was
his duty to care, he bade adieu to Kentucky, and returned
to Snowdon in time to join the Christmas party at
Terrace Hill, where Irving Stanley was a guest, and
where, in spite of the war clouds darkening our land,
and in spite of the sad, haunting memories of the
dead, there was much hilarity and joy—­reminding
the villagers of the olden time when Terrace Hill was
filled with gay revelers. Anna Millbrook was there,
more beautiful than in her girlhood, and almost childishly
fond of her missionary Charlie, who she laughingly
declared was perfectly incorrigible on the subject
of surplice and gown, adding that as the mountain
would not go to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain;
and so she was fast becoming an out-and-out Presbyterian
of the very bluest stripe.

Sweet Anna! None who looked into her truthful,
loving face, or knew the beautiful consistency of
her daily life, could doubt that whether Presbyterian
or Episcopal in sentiment, the heart was right and
the feet were treading the narrow path which leadeth
unto life eternal.

It was a happy week spent at Terrace Hill; but one
heart ached to its very core when, at its close, Irving
Stanley went back to where duty called him, trusting
that the God who had succored him thus far, would
shield him from future harm, and keep him safely till
the coming autumn, when, with the first falling of
the leaf, he would gather to his embrace his darling
Adah, who, with every burden lifted from her spirits,
had grown in girlish beauty until others than himself
marveled at her strange loveliness.

* * * *
*

On the white walls of a handsome country seat just
on the banks of the Connecticut, the light of the
April sunset falls, and the soft April wind kisses
the fair cheek and lifts the golden curls of the young
mistress of Spring Bank—­for so, in memory
of the olden time, have they named their new home—­Hugh
and Alice, who, arm in arm, walk up and down the terraced
garden, talking softly of the way they have been led,
and gratefully ascribing all praise to Him who rules
and overrules, but does nought save good to those
who love Him.

Down in the meadow land and at the rear of the building,
dusky forms are seen—­the negroes, who have
come to their Northern home, and among them the runaway,
who, ashamed of his desertion, has returned to his
former master, resenting the name of contraband, and
dismissing the ultra-abolitionists as humbugs, who
deserved putting in the front of every battle.
Hugh knows it will be hard accustoming these blacks
to Northern usages and ways of doing things, but as
he has their good in view as well as his own, and
as they will not leave him, he feels sure that in
time he will succeed, and cares but little for the
opinion of those who wonder what he “expects
to do with that lazy lot of niggers.”

Page 243

On a rustic seat, near a rear door, white-haired old
Sam is sitting, listening intently, while dusky Mug
reads to him from the book of books, the one he prizes
above all else, stopping occasionally to expound, in
his own way, some point which he fancies may not be
clear to her, likening every good man to “Massah
Hugh,” and every bad one to the leader of the
“Suddern ’Federacy,” whose horse
he declares he held once in “ole Virginny,”
telling Mug, in an aside, “how, if ’twasn’t
wicked, nor agin’ de scripter, he should most
wish he’d put beech nuts under Massah Jeffres’
saddle, and so broke his fetched neck, ’fore
he raise sich a muss, runnin’ calico so high
that Miss Ellis ’clar she couldn’t ‘ford
it, and axin’ fifteen cents for a paltry spool
of cotton.”

In the stable yard, Claib, his good-humored face all
aglow with pride, is exercising the fiery Rocket,
who arches his neck as proudly as of old, and dances
mincingly around, while Lulu leans over the gate,
watching not so much him as the individual who holds
him. And now that it grows darker, and the ripple
of the river sounds more like eventide, lights gleam
from the pleasant parlor, and thither Hugh and Alice
repair, still hand in hand, still looking love into
each other’s eyes, but not forgetting others
in their own great happiness.

Very pleasantly Alice smiles upon Mrs. Worthington
and Aunt Eunice sitting by the cheerful fire just
kindled on the marble hearth; and then, withdrawing
her hand from Hugh’s, trips up the stairs and
knocking at a door, goes in where Densie sits, watching
the daylight fade from the western sky, and whispering
to herself of the baby she could not find when she
went back to her home in the far-off city. Without
turning her head, she puts to Alice the same question
she puts to every one:

“Have you children, madam?” and when Alice
answers no, she adds: “Be thankful then,
for they will never call you a white nigger, as ’Lina
did her mother. Poor ’Lina, she died, though
saying ‘Our Father.’ Will you say
that with me?”

“Yes, Densie, it’s almost time to say
our evening prayer, I came for you,” Alice rejoins,
and taking the crazed creature’s hand, she leads
her gently down to the parlor below, where, ere long,
the blacks are all assembled, and kneeling side by
side, they follow with stammering tongues, but honest
hearts, their beloved master as he says first the
prayer our Savior taught, and then with words of thankful
praise asks God to bless and keep him and his in the
days to come, even as He has blessed and kept them
in the days gone by.